Seven Soldiers
by Ninurtah
Summary: A womanizer, a child, two orphans, two war criminals, and a legend that wants to be forgotten. Together, they're all that stands between the Galaxy and the Mandalorian warlord who threatens to plunge it into a new Dark Age. Set post-SWTOR.
1. Lost Among The Dead

Sunon's hand edged towards the blaster at her waist, and the hands of the nine men in the warehouse did likewise.

_One, two, three._

She tapped her pistol, marking the three men across from her. Six more stood next to her. Her side had the numbers, but numerical superiority wouldn't mean much if she was one of the unlucky few to get dropped when their guns left their holsters.

"What do you mean you don't have the credits?" said Fenn to the dealer across from him and Sunon. The human was her boss, at least until this deal was settled—through violence or otherwise. His name might have had someone picturing a youthful scrapper with a full head of hair and a devil-may-care attitude. And that might have been true, thirty years ago. Now, he was just one more burly low-level chief for the Black Suns, with a nose for money and a knack for cruelty.

Not that he had the brains to rise any further in the cartel—and not that he would be taking Sunon with him, even if he did. The man was a racist, through and through. He wore his hatred for aliens—near-human Zabraks included—on his sleeve, and let Sunon know just what he thought of her every chance he got. She let it roll off of her like water off a raincoat. As soon as someone higher-up noticed her talents, she'd be done running security for these low-level deals. Then, things would get easier. Then, there'd be no stopping her.

It also helped that his racism was misdirected. One of the dealer's men—a Zabrak—hadn't taken his eyes off of Sunon since they'd walked into the warehouse a minute ago. Even with everyone ready to draw their weapons, his gaze kept moving up to the top of her head. They looked much the same—red skin, black tribal markings over their faces, small horns poking out of their dark brown hair—but he could tell there was something off about her.

"It means we wanna work _on _credit." The dealer in front of Fenn hoisted up his belt and gestured at the Zabrak and human standing alongside him. "How long we been buying from you?"

"Long enough for you to know that's not how this works." Fenn motioned for one of his men to shut the trunk of the cruiser idling behind them.

"So it's like that, is it?" The dealer slid a hand down to his own blaster, and Sunon coiled her fingers around her blaster grip.

"Yeah, it's like that." Maybe it was complacency, or pride, or maybe just laziness, but Fenn made a move a man should never make when in a standoff. He turned his back, sighing and signalling to the man near the cruiser that they were leaving.

Sunon drew her blaster. She hadn't even realized she was doing it, but her trigger finger knew what was happening before her brain did. Ten blasters were in hand in the blink of an eye, and the Zabrak's was rising to meet hers. Just as she caught a glimpse of that jet-black barrel moving towards her face, everything went white and silent.

He couldn't have beaten her. She was better, faster—and she had moved first. A ringing filled her ears, and she was sliding along a hard surface. First metal, then rugged concrete. She spun around on the floor and tried to stagger to her feet, but her jacket twisted with her and brought her crashing back down in a flail of arms and legs.

"Up!" came a voice through the haze. It couldn't be her. Here? Now? She prayed that it wasn't. Let it be the police. Let it be a rival gang.

A strong hand brought her to her knees, then to her feet, before pushing her back-first against a wall. Her vision swam, a senseless array of colors and swirls that gradually turned back into a view of reality. She was in an alley somewhere in the endless cityscape of Nar Shaddaa, with the warehouse nowhere in sight and the noise of cruisers overhead filling her ears. A human woman's scarred face stared back at her, creased with anger and topped with a head of tight red hair grayed with age. A few years ago Sunon would have been looking up at the woman. Now, they saw eye to eye—but only in the most literal sense.

Keeping a tight grip on Sunon's shirt, the woman drew her hand back and slapped her across the face. Then a second time, and a third, until her head was reeling all over again. She could have fought back, but she didn't. The sooner the woman's anger was out, the sooner she would stop.

"You want to tell me what the hell you were doing?" Maliss said between heavy breaths. She was getting old.

Sunon looked from Maliss' raised hand back to her face. "My job."

Her frown deepened and she motioned as if to strike again, but then yanked Sunon from the wall and sent her stumbling towards the street ahead.

"Running security for the Black Sun isn't a job. It's a death sentence." Maliss pointed ahead of her. "Move."

She marched her captive to a taxi stop, where the two got into an automated cruiser en route to one of the urban moon's many starports. Brief thoughts of taking off running at their stop entered Sunon's mind, but she pushed those aside. Maliss wasn't going to shoot her, but she wasn't above using the handle of her gun as an impromptu blackjack—she'd done it before. And one didnt run from a Mandalorian bounty hunter, even if they were retired with creaky knees and a tight back.

All Sunon could do now was let herself be taken home.

They reached the docking bay Maliss had landed her shuttle in. She shoved Sunon up the ramp of her ship and closed it, then pulled open the younger woman's buttoned shirt and plucked two small discs no bigger around than grapes from either side of her chest. The jagged black markings running up Sunon's face faded away, leaving her with the full red face of a Sith. Next came the fake horns, peeled off her head with a pained wince as the glue clung to her tousled hair.

"Sit." Maliss pointed to the cockpit, and Sunon stomped over to the co-pilot's chair before slumping down with crossed arms and pursed lips.

"Am I your prisoner?" Sunon said.

Maliss laughed. "Sure. You're my prisoner."

"And when we get to Tinnel?" She leaned over her armrest and stared the woman in the eyes. "I'm gonna be your prisoner there, too?"

"Is this leading up to another _'You're not my mother' _?"

"I'm an _adult!" _She slapped her chest. "I can make my own choices."

With a dismissive scoff, Maliss turned back to the ship controls and brought their ship out of the docking bay. "Obviously not."

* * *

They descended on the planet of Tinnel IV, and soon came within view of home—a homestead of modest appearance and respectable size, the only building in an endless sea of long grass. Starships sat all around it, though none of them worked. Maliss routinely bought junked ships and had them hauled there for refurbishment. Some of them had been there for years. Sunon doubted whether she'd ever made a profit on the business. It seemed like more of an outlet for her boredom when drinking no longer took the edge off. As they circled around to the group of landing pads behind the home, another ship came into view, and Sunon's heart skipped a beat when she recognized the small shuttle.

"Well, well." Maliss grinned and twisted her fingers around the flight sticks. "Get ready for an earful."

She set down on one of the two remaining pads, and they both left the shuttle behind to walk across the catwalk leading to the home. Maliss used the door controls beside the garage, rolling up the shutters. At the center of the room sat their visitor, a purple-skinned Twi'lek in a loose black vest. She smiled and stood up from the stool she was sitting on, crossing the workshop with arms spread wide to embrace Maliss. The Mandalorian took her head in both hands and delivered kiss after kiss to either cheek, not stopping until the Twi'lek finally pushed her away. The Twi'lek glanced over at the waiting Sunon, then put a hand on the small of Maliss' back and turned her towards the doorway leading further into the home.

"I'm starving," she said into Maliss' ear. The Mandalorian left the other two alone, and the Twi'lek stalked towards the uneasy Sunon.

"It's good to see you, Ayahe," said the Sith.

The Twi'lek grabbed the other woman by the arm and looked up into her eyes. Even though she was a good half a foot shorter, Ayahe had a way of making her younger sister feel as if she was being looked down on.

"She is sixty-one years old. She cannot be chasing after you like this."

Sunon frowned and pulled her arm from her grip. "I didn't _ask _her to."

"She will do it whether you ask her to or not. So _stop." _She put her hands on her hips and glared at her until the younger sister was forced to look away.

"Alright."

"Good." She put a hand on top of her head, then withdrew it and turned to follow Maliss into the home.

"Wait!" Sunon scrambled for one of the work tables and scooped up a metal disc, knocking aside carefully-organized screwdrivers before hurrying back over to Ayahe. "A miniaturized repulsor lift."

The Twi'lek took it in her hands and looked it over thoughtfully. "This will never have enough battery life. That is why they do not miniaturize them." She handed it back to her sister, then turned to leave.

"Oh... right." Sunon placed the repulsor where she had picked it up from, then carefully repositioned the screwdrivers beside it before hurrying after Ayahe. Maliss hadn't even made it to the kitchen. She was seated on a couch in the center of the living room, glass in hand and a bottle of Corellian Ale on the table.

"I thought you were going to make food!" Ayahe grabbed her drink.

"Alcohol _is _food." She tried to snatch the glass back, but the Twi'lek was too quick and the Mandalorian too old.

Sunon sighed. "I will cook."

As she walked past the table to the kitchen, Maliss pressed her lips tight in a covert smile and leaned over the table, shifting the small metal statue in the middle just slightly to the left. Sunon stopped dead in her tracks, frowning and looking Maliss in the eyes as she moved the decoration back to the middle before continuing to the kitchen.

Ayahe wrinkled her lips and sat down beside her mother. "Do you have to do that?" she whispered.

Maliss took a deep breath in, struggling to hold back her laughter. "I can't help it."

Half an hour later they were sat around the dinner table, Ayahe talking circles around the other two as she discussed work. Sunon only understood half of it—more than Maliss, at least—but she kept up as best she could, nodding along eagerly as Ayahe laid out the problems presented by large-scale solar energy production. The Sith kept quiet, for the most part. She had learned at an early age that asking the Twi'lek stupid questions brought angry responses—and she didnt want that. She wanted her sister to keep talking, and keep smiling.

After dinner was over and Sunon cleared the table, she turned back to see that both women had left. She dropped the plates into the sink and sprinted outside, just barely managing to catch Ayahe in the cool night air outside her waiting shuttle.

"Let me come with you," Sunon gasped out. During dinner she had prepared a subtle, meandering conversation to lead up to that final request, but time wasn't on her side.

Ayahe stopped and turned to her, giving the girl a weak smile. "I am on my way to a science conference on Corellia. You would not enjoy it."

"I need to get _out _of here." Sunon grabbed her wrist and shook her arm up and down. "I will carry your bags. I will set up your tech. You do not even have to pay me—"

Ayahe held up a hand, halting the flow of words in its tracks.

"You know why you cannot come with me."

She did. She'd heard why a hundred times. A thousand times. There were few places in the galaxy where the Sith race was not feared and hated. Least among them the human-dominated core worlds of the Republic, such as Corellia. Tricks like the one she'd pulled on Nar Shaddaa worked some of the time, but not all of the time. And when they didnt, that meant she had to back that fear of her up with action.

Ayahe's hand began to slip from her grasp, but Sunon pulled her back.

"When are you coming again?"

The Twi'lek smiled and brought her in for a hug, then patted her on the back. "As soon as I can."

And like that it was over, far too soon for Sunon's liking—both their brief visit and briefer moment of affection. Every trip home the Twi'lek made was shorter than the last, and every conversation between them grew more difficult as Sunon had less to talk about and Ayahe had more to think about. She feared that soon, they would be complete strangers.

Back in the living room, Maliss was seated on the couch, glass in hand once again.

"She left," Sunon said. Maliss met her announcement with silence. "It was nice seeing her a whole three hours this month."

"She's busy," Maliss said, twisting around on the couch to look back at her. "You could learn something from her. Do something constructive with your life."

His lip twitched in annoyance. "I _was _doing something, before you dragged me back here."

"Moving spice isn't constructive." She turned back around and swirled her drink. "Your sister is doing stuff that's gonna save lives."

"How many lives have _you_ saved?" Sunon shot back. She had been forced to listen to too many war stories not to throw them back in the Mandalorian's face. Maliss rolled her eyes and shook her head, then turned back around. Sunon's hands clenched into fists as she walked around to the front of the couch to face Maliss. "I'm not a genius, like her. I'm working with what I've got. What _you _taught me."

Maliss looked down at her drink and smirked.

"Tried using the Force lately? Maybe that'll pan out—"

Sunon stepped towards her and hauled her fist back to punch her, but in the blink of an eye Maliss was off of the sofa and pulling Sunon into a tight hug, keeping the Sith's arms locked to her side.

"Sorry, sorry. That was too far." Sunon squirmed in Maliss' grip, but she wouldn't let go until Sunon had calmed down enough for the Mandalorian to release her without risking a fist to the face. "Sit down."

Maliss' hand still tight on her arm, she lowered her onto the couch, then took a seat beside her and handed her a drink. Sunon hung her head over her knees, not wanting to let her see how much she was still stewing over her words.

"You have a home," Maliss said. "And a family. Lot of people wish they had that much."

"You're not my family," Sunon said. "Not really." They'd argued far too much over the years for those words to hurt Maliss—if they ever had.

Maliss took a deep breath in and leaned back, as if preparing some great declaration while she wondered whether to start with it at all. "I'm your aunt," she finally said. Sunon's eyes snapped to hers and she stared at her, dumbfounded, until Maliss looked off to the side and shrugged. "Well, your great-aunt. On your father's side."

Too many emotions rushed through Sunon at once for any single one of them to take hold. She looked back down and ran a thumb along the rim of her glass while she tried to decide how to form a question around the mass of confusion filling her mind.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Maliss let out a low groan, as if she were being forced to recall some memories she would rather have left buried.

"It would've led to some... messy questions."

Both fell silent for a time, the Mandalorian staring off into space while Sunon kept her eyes fixed on her untouched drink. She raised it to her lips before another question—the one she had wanted to ask first—refused to be held back any longer.

"So why are you telling me this now?"

When Maliss spoke again, her voice was quiet.

"They've been gone for sixteen years." Sunon nodded, biting her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "They're not coming back."

Sunon's breath caught in her throat, and when she finally opened her mouth to speak, she could not keep her emotions from flowing out with her words.

"I know," she choked out. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she tried to tuck her chin down further before giving up and simply hanging her head as shallow breaths became retching sobs.

Maliss wrapped her arm around her shoulders and squeezed her tight. "Your dad was a crybaby, too."

After she calmed down enough to pull herself free, Sunon went upstairs, returning to a bedroom that felt increasingly alien, yet painfully familiar. Home had become a dirty word in her mind, a nicer name for a cage she kept being dragged back to—and not even a gilded cage. There, among those scrapped ships and cluttered workrooms, she was dying a slow death. She wasn't dramatic enough to pretend that her life was anywhere near its end, but that end—no matter how far off—would look just like the present moment if something did not change.

And those dreams of change were vanishing one by one. She walked over to her bed, then stopped and spun around towards her desk and thrust her hands at the electronics and weapons atop it, willing the Force to flow through her hands.

Whatever that felt like. She had never felt it. The offspring of a Sith woman and a man who had trained—however briefly—as both Jedi _and _Sith. By all rights, she should have been a prodigy. But providence had seen fit to throw another unexpected event into the mix and given them a daughter without a hint of Force sensitivity. This galaxy had miracles, children with amazing powers who were born to normal parents. Why not tragedies, as well?

The only talents she had were those Maliss had instilled in her from an early age. She'd taught her how to shoot, how to fight, how to patch a wound—how to kill, even. Then, the training had stopped. At first, Sunon thought Maliss had simply gotten bored of the lessons. Then she realized what Maliss had—that Sunon was getting too good. That she loved having something she could finally excel at. That she wanted to put those skills to use.

As Sunon's hands fell from her failed attempts to topple the computer atop her desk, she noticed something. An icon was blinking in the corner of the otherwise blank screen, indicating a missed call. She sat down and pulled up the call log to see one 'Avam Yet' listed at the top of the log. He had been her original in with the Black Suns. Not that he was some seasoned crime lord. In fact, he was a year younger than her, little more than a boy. But he had grown up in the underlevels of Coruscant, and had there made connections that spread far and wide like the roots of some muck-dwelling swamp cypress.

Avam had brokered Maliss' purchase of a junked freighter years ago. The thing had almost certainly been stolen, but it was one of the few ships to ever get repaired and make the trip out of their yard and back into the stars. That deal had also given Sunon her one lasting connection to the outside world. It might not have been a path to something pretty, but at least it was a way out.

She tapped the screen and dialed Avam, then quickly hung up and tied back her hair before placing the call again and folding her hands on the desk. He came on screen a few moments later, eyes frantic and youthful brow furrowed with anxious lines that shouldn't have formed for another twenty years.

"Sunon!" He leaned forward and grabbed both sides of his viewscreen. "I've been trying to reach you for a day!"

She had prepared herself for this. Her employers would want to know why she had vanished from a deal gone bad. Letting them know she was even _alive _was a risk, but she had to take it.

"I can explain what happened." She swallowed and readied the version of events she had concocted. "The dealer didn't come with credits. Fenn told him—"

"They don't care about that!" Avam exclaimed, then took a moment to calm himself. "Listen. There's something _big _going down on Corellia in two days. They want you there."

"Me?" she pointed at her chest, and he nodded.

"This came down from the sector head. They said _you, _specifically."

Sector heads weren't just thugs. They were feudal kings, crime lords ruling over entire swathes of the galaxy in a loose conglomeration under the Black Sun umbrella. Most kept their identities a secret, ruling through violence and fear.

"What is it?" Her voice shook with uncertainty. "You're not giving me a lot of info here."

"They're making a push on some local gangs. You know they're not gonna tell me more than that."

She swallowed and sat back in her chair. This was exactly what she had been waiting for—so why did she feel so afraid? She tapped her thigh with her finger, stopping at the count of three before starting again.

"What do I tell them?" Avam said.

Her gaze snapped back to the viewscreen. "Yes!" She didn't leave her doubts time to stop her from seizing the opportunity she'd been given. "I'll be there."


	2. The Revanchist

A fuel stipend. Docking fees, paid for by her employers. Accommodations arranged ahead of time.

Sunon had made it. No longer was she working jobs where payment was at the end of a job and always an open question mark. They wanted her, and they were letting her know that. All that was left was to arrange transport from Tinnel IV to Corellia, a task far easier than it should have been. Maliss had locked their only working shuttle down tight, but their home was a ship graveyard. Sometimes, a ship could rise from the dead. Especially when it had been worked on for months, in secret, and kept unused for just such a purpose as Sunon had now. Figuring out when to leave was only a matter of waiting until Maliss' bottle of ale had run empty.

The instructions Avam had relayed to her had been clear—painstakingly so. Once she reached Corellia she called for docking permission at a manufacturing facility on the edge of the capital city's cultural district. The entire city had long since gone to sleep, and Czanas Materials' complex was no different. A lone human guard took charge of her ship, assuring her it would be waiting for her when she got back. She didn't like handing over the proverbial keys to her only means of transport, but she had already committed herself to this.

On her way down from the rooftop landing pads she saw Coronet City laid out before her, bright office complexes ringed with darkened parks that cut a path of green through the urban sprawl. Further away still was the cultural district and its spires of glass and steel. Somewhere out there, her sister would be addressing a room full of brilliant men and women with bright faces and brighter minds.

Sunon's path took her close to her sister, but it looked very different. She waved down an automated cruiser outside Czanas Materials and took a ten minute ride through dark industrial parks that gradually gave way to art galleries and opera houses. It was a strange place to pass through hours before a gang war. Stranger still was the meeting place—a domed museum just off of a main boulevard. Signs outside marked it as closed for renovation, and Sunon had to duck under warning tape to reach the main door.

She knocked four times, as per the instructions. A few moments later the door opened and the head of a bald man appeared from out of the shadows inside. A mean-looking scar ran over one milky eye, and he was covered from neck to toe in red and black armor. She had seen armor like it many times before, though the colors had been different. She passed by it nearly every day at home.

The man continued to stare at her, and she remembered that she was supposed to say something.

"Black Bronto."

He flung open the door and stomped back inside, leaving Sunon to grab the door before it could latch behind him. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the low-light of the museum, and each moment seemed to bring stranger sights still. She was in the main room, walking into the middle of a circular space ringed with glass display cases containing items from Corellia's history—weapons, documents, armor, even some life-like statues. Among those inert artifacts, on the ground floor as well as the balcony overlooking the space, were dozens of real people and weapons. All wore armor just like that of the man who had answered the door, and they busied themselves pulling blaster rifles from crates and inspecting them.

"Excuse me!" she whispered at the man as she chased after him.

He stopped and pointed off to the side. "Talk to Tralus."

At the edge of the room, standing in front of a glass viewcase with his hands clasped behind his back, was another man. Unlike the heavily armored men and women gearing up around him, he wore only a black tunic with gold threading around the edges. His blond hair was slicked neatly back in a professional cut. It wasn't the kind of look Sunon expected to see on a Black Sun merc, but she reminded herself that crime, contrary to the saying, did pay.

"Do you think he would recognize his descendants?" Tralus said to her as she approached. He motioned at the viewcase in front of him, and the lifelike figure contained within—a Corellian warrior of an era long past, scavenged armor hanging off his burly chest and vibrosword held high overhead in an everlasting show of victory.

"I think he'd be pretty amazed at what they've built." She stopped alongside him and looked up at the statue. It was just inert plastic, but the sculptor had managed to put some life into the wild eyes staring off into space.

"Ah, but they didnt build this." Tralus pointed at the figure. "He did."

"I guess you're right." Sunon didnt have much patience for these kinds of talks, least of all now. Still, this man seemed to be the one who would be calling the shots. Better to keep him happy and let him talk.

"People put the Strill before the cart, you see." Tralus noted her confused expression and smiled. "If you'll excuse the provincial Mandalorian expression."

He motioned back to the statue. "Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times." He spread his arms outward, as if gathering up the whole city in his sweeping gesture. "Good times create weak men, and weak men create hard times."

True or not, it was catchy.

"Where would you say we are now in that endless cycle?" he said to her.

"Corellia, specifically?"

Tralus laughed. "Thats a good point. Few planets have fallen as far as mine."

"Mandalore?" He didnt look like a Mandalorian, with his fine dress and cultured manner. Then again, he didnt look the part of a Black Sun mercenary, either.

"My people have lost their way. Once, their armadas knocked at Corellia's gates. Now, they send delegations here to ensure 'peace'."

Sunon's eyes went wide and she looked around at the heavily-armed mercenaries. They were smack in the middle of the capital's cultural district, a five mile walk from every embassy in the city. And here, they had a small army.

"We're not—"

He burst out laughing and turned her back around. "Oh God, no. Tonight, were thieves."

"They told me this was about pushing out rival gangs."

"That was just a cover. Our true goal is to recover a weapon of great importance to my people. One that has spent too long in a display case."

"Here?" If he meant to steal it from the museum, the job was already half-done.

Tralus looked at his wrist. "It will be here, but not for another day at least."

She looked at him oddly. "Why a day?"

"Well, first..." He turned to face her, and his once thoughtful face had taken on a grave intensity. "You need to make a call."

All eyes in the room were on her. The mercenaries who had been so occupied checking and double-checking their weapons were edging closer, fingers on triggers.

"What is this?" she said, going for her own blaster as she backed away from him.

"Maliss Vizla." Tralus watched her eyes for signs of recognition. "What is she, your guardian? Your lover?"

Sunon pulled her blaster from its holster, but with a wave of Tralus' hand it was sent flying across the room.

"You're going to call her," Tralus said. "And you're going to tell her to come here."

She tried to run, but an invisible force wrapped around her wrist, holding her fast as Tralus approached.

"Like hell." Sunon squeezed her eyes shut and pressed a button inside her belt. Light filled the room, and she was free. Before she even opened her eyes she was off, sprinting full-force for the museum entrance while a few of the mercs scrambled after her.

"Don't kill her!" Tralus shouted as he rubbed his eyes.

Someone tackled Sunon to the ground, rolling with her into a display case that rattled on its base. A few boot kicks to his face freed her, but only for a moment. A second man was at her waist, flinging her around in a circle while she hammered at his back with both fists. She found a gap in his armor and drove her hands down hard on his neck, sending him straight to the ground.

Her hand wrapped around the door handle, and she flung it open.

"Sunon!" came another shout. She stopped and let the door close, then turned back around. Avam Yet was on his knees next to Tralus, his face bloodied and hands bound behind his back. Behind him, a merc clutched his shirt and held a blaster to his head.

The other mercenaries rushed towards Sunon and brought her to the ground, far more easily now that she wasn't fighting back. They tied her wrists behind her back and hoisted her to her knees, then dragged her to Tralus.

Avam looked up at her with guilty eyes. "Sorry."

Sunon swallowed hard and then held her head high. "You didn't know."

"I don't want you to think I'm not serious," Tralus said. "And I'd rather not waste any more time." With a flick of his wrist Avam's head twisted around with a sharp snap, and his muscles went slack. The mercenary holding him jerked back in surprise, letting the boy's body fall to the floor.

Sunon's jaw dropped open, then snapped shut as her eyes narrowed and went to Tralus. She launched herself at him, pulling the two mercs at her side with her as her head went right for his face.

Then, she stopped. Her feet slid on the marbled floor, unable to gain any traction. Tralus' hand was held out in front of him, and pulses of energy crashed into her like ocean waves, pushing with irresistible force until she was sent crashing back to the ground.

"Like I said." Tralus took a datapad handed to him by one of the mercs. "Time is wasting." He held it in front of the prone Sunon, who reeled back and spat in his face.

"You just murdered your only leverage," she said through clenched teeth and eyes red with furious grief.

"I have you." He snapped his fingers and a chair was hauled across the floor, and Sunon sat atop it. Her hands were wrapped around the back and tied to the frame, and her ankles bound to the legs. "I've always believed that when the chips are down, people will do anything to save their own hide."

He prodded her chest with the datapad, but she wrenched her face to the side and thrashed in the chair, forcing two of the mercs to steady it.

"So be it." He handed the datapad off and rolled up his sleeves, than grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head forward.

"You will call her. The only question is how much pain you endure before you break."

She tried to spit in his face again, but he was ready. He used the Force to block it and then swung his hand wide, backhanding her across the face. Wet iron coated her tongue, and more followed. He closed his hand into a fist and hit her in the jaw, sending her head crashing sideways before bringing his other fist down on her. It went on like that for minutes, and he never seemed to tire. Nor did his hands earn a fraction of the bruises and broken bones her face did. With each blow he shielded his hands with the Force, leaving him completely unmarred as he rained down brutal violence on her.

When he finally stepped back she was left reeling, her head wobbling back and forth as the room spun and her very brain throbbed in her skull. Everything seemed to be out of place—her nose, her teeth, even her eye sockets. Her head was whipped back again and she was staring Tralus in the face, a datapad held by his head.

"Call her," he said.

She took a deep breath in, and then spat. Bloody saliva coated his face, and he staggered backwards before striking her again—and again, and again.

In the end, she did break. It wasn't the first round that had done it, or even the second. But eventually, the pain became so overwhelming, so demanding, that she could think of nothing else besides making it stop. Family, friends, duty, honor—none of those existed. Broken bones and screaming nerve endings were all that were real. When she finally made the call and saw Maliss' horrified face on the viewscreen, she didnt even feel shame. She was just glad that she could rest.

"Listen very carefully." Tralus pulled the datapad away from Sunon and walked off with it. "You have something I want."

She couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. Tralus eventually ended the call, then told his men that Maliss was on her way. Sunon was scared. She'd been scared before—it shouldn't have been a new feeling. She'd been scared of not becoming what she knew she was born to be, scared of Maliss dragging her back home from another rough outing, scared of growing more distant from her sister.

But that wasn't real fear. That wasn't the bone-deep, blood-curdling knowledge that she and Maliss could both die at the hands of these men. Avam's body grew cold on the floor beside her, remaining as a grim reminder of that possible fate. Sunon should have listened to Maliss. In that moment, all she wanted was for her aunt to drag her back to her boring home and boring life. If they made it through this, she would never leave.

Time passed, but a battered body and weary mind made it hard to tell how long. The mercenaries kept her tied up at the center of the main room, occasionally changing shifts as the light outside brightened and then darkened once again. As she passed into her second night on Corellia, she heard something. The pitter-patter of rain, growing in intensity until it turned into a deafening roar that drowned out the chatter of the mercs. Maybe that was what set them on edge, or maybe they just knew that Maliss was due to arrive soon. They took up positions around both levels of the room, guns at the ready and eyes focused on the front doors. Sunon remained alone in the middle, the lone prize in a game she still didnt know the stakes of.

The doors opened. A massive figure stepped in, metal boots clanking on the marble floor and wet black raincoat shedding water as the person walked into the museum. Two hands pulled back the hood, revealing Maliss. This wasn't like the other times she had showed up to snatch Sunon. She was focused as always, eyes darting every which way as she noted the mercs' locations—but her lips and eyebrows were drawn down into a sad worry.

"Stop." Sunon twisted her head back to see Tralus emerging from the rear halls. "Did you bring it?" He didnt have a weapon in hand, but she knew that he didnt need one. Maliss reached under her raincoat and pulled out a sword hilt with no blade. She placed it on the floor and kicked it over to him.

He picked it up and thumbed a switch on the handle, and a shimmering blade of midnight black shot forth from the handle. Their home back on Tinnel IV had entire rooms trophy rooms dedicated to housing every weapon and scrap of armor Maliss deemed memorable enough to keep, but Sunon had never seen that sword before. It wasn't one she would have forgotten.

"The Darksaber." His eyes ran up and down the softly-humming energy blade in awe.

Maliss walked the rest of the way to Sunon, and stopped just before her.

"Sorry," Sunon said up to her, blinking tears from her eyes.

Maliss gave her a weak smile and nodded reassuringly. "It's just a sword."

"No, it's not." Tralus shouted to her. "It's a symbol of strength, held only by the worthy." He motioned to the mercs to lower their weapons, which they did—but only slightly. "And won through blood." He stepped into the space at the center of the room, deactivating the sword and sheathing it on his belt before flexing his open hands at his sides and sending a crackle of lightning dancing across his fingertips.

"He can use the Force!" Sunon hissed to Maliss. She was desperate for her not to fight him. "Please. I want to go home."

"Maliss Vizla was a great warrior, once." Tralus raised his hand up and pointed his fingertips at Maliss as blue electricity wreathed his arm. "But that was another life."

"You're barking up the wrong tree!" Maliss grinned and waved her arms. "I stole that thing from a Sith—Lord Andar. I don't know who the hell was the last guy to earn it the proper way."

Tralus raised an eyebrow and lowered his hand. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Maliss stepped behind Sunon and put her hands on her shoulders.

The man let out a grunt of amusement, then spun on his heels and strode off for the rear of the museum.

"Sir?" One of the mercenaries shouted back at him. "What about them?" He pointed at the two women.

Tralus snapped his fingers like he'd remembered something he'd just forgotten, then turned to the other man and gave him a look as if the answer were obvious.

"Kill them," he said.

All eyes in the room went back to Sunon and Maliss, and guns were raised. As soon as the first blaster fire rang out Maliss wrapped her arms around Sunon, raising her wrists up to blocks the bolts from striking the Sith in the chest. Hot plasma burned away Maliss' raincoat from her Durasteel wristguards upward, revealing the heavy Mandalorian armor underneath. Before the next round of blaster fire could come she grabbed Sunon's chair and hurled her across the room, throwing her away from the killzone the mercenaries had established at the center.

Sunon's chair broke against the base of a display case and she pulled free of her bindings while Maliss made a mad dash for cover in the opposite direction, returning fire as she ran. Sunon spotted a small group on the other side of a huge animal skeleton, levying their guns at Maliss as the woman slid under the balcony holding up another group of mercs. Sunon ran towards the display and shoved upward on the bony tail, rocking it back and forth before giving one final heave that sent the entire thing crashing down on the thugs. The noise drew the attention of the group on the balcony, but Maliss was ready. She leaned out from the wall she'd pressed herself to, firing up through the floor and turning the men above her into smoking corpses.

Sunon ran towards Maliss, crossing the center of the room and exposing herself to the dozen more mercs swarming in from the rear of the building and taking up positions around Tralus. She had seen them changing shifts—she should have known there were more. As they pointed an artillery battery's worth of rifles at her, Maliss pushed off of the wall behind her and flared the jetpack on her back, turning what little of her raincoat remained to ash. She slid along the floor towards Sunon, wet metal boots screeching terribly as her arms wrapped around the Sith and her armored body covered Sunon's.

Blaster fire filled the room, light bouncing off of every shard of glass and wet patch of floor. Sunon could feel the heat behind her, and staggered forward as Maliss herself struggled to stay standing.

Then, a split-second later, they were in the air. Glass broke above Sunon's head as they rocketed through the skylight, carried up above the museum and high above Corellia's cultural district. A gleaming metropolis ran in every direction, one that seemed to go on forever past the rain and wind whipping at her race.

Then, Sunon was back on the ground, smashing into a street a block away from the museum and rolling out of Maliss' arms. She clutched at her side and groaned, certain she had broken the last few unbroken bones in her body. Maliss was beside her, but she wasn't getting up.

Hands clawing at the wet concrete, Sunon crawled her way onto Maliss. The Mandalorian's eyes were wide open and she was taking shallow, ragged breaths that seemed to catch on something with each intake of air.

"Maliss." Sunon shook her gently, and the other woman's eyes snapped to hers. She tried to speak, but as soon as she opened her mouth blood spilled from the corners of her lips.

"Hold on, hold on," Sunon muttered as she slowly rolled Maliss up on one side. Blood covered the blaster-riddled backside of her armor, and more ran down the rain-soaked street away from her. Sunon choked back a sob and lowered her back down, then leaned over her.

"They're coming. Do you hear that?" Sirens sounded in the distance, and grew closer with each passing second. "Just hold on. Theyre coming."

Maliss' breaths were no longer shallow—they weren't breaths at all. They were wet gurgles, desperate attempts to take in air that only resulted in more blood spilling from her mouth. The Mandalorian squeezed her eyes shut, then arched her back as she drew in one last, desperate, lungful of air. Her back smacked down to the concrete and she drew a hand up to Sunon's chest, jabbing her with a finger that felt far too weak.

"I'll tell him... we're even."

The last word left as a wet rattle, and Maliss' eyes fluttered shut as her head lowered back to the ground.

"Maliss!" Sunon shook her, willing the woman's eyes open. "Wait!" She looked around for someone—anyone—to help, but there was no one. Only those crowing sirens that still seemed so distant.

"I don't know what to do." She bit her lip and pressed her forehead to Maliss', tears running down their joined faces. "Tell me what to do."

* * *

Sunon hadn't cried since being led into the police station and sat down in a conference room. If anything, she wanted to laugh. Her body jerked and spasmed every few minutes, almost like she was laughing. Then, she realized that she was cold. Her clothes were soaked, and the grey-walled station was hardly any warmer than the streets outside. A blanket had been placed around her shoulders, but it hadn't occurred to her to pull it tighter. She vaguely recalled someone coming into the room earlier to do exactly that, but couldn't remember their face or what they had said to her.

Nor could she recall what she had told them after they had found her lying over Maliss' body. She had talked for a long time, she knew that much. Whatever she had said, it must have been the truth. Why lie? It was too much trouble. Everything seemed like too much trouble. Moving, breathing, living—it was all a bother.

Maliss was dead.

Sunon cracked a smile at the thought. It sounded like a bad joke. How could she be dead? The woman was invincible, more a force of nature than a human being. A living legend, with legendary stories. And legends didnt die. They passed into the mists of history with body and soul intact, remaining there to be called on again in a time of need.

They didnt bleed out in the gutter.

The door to the conference room opened, and for the first time in hours Sunon saw a face she recognized. A purple Twi'lek, soaked with rain just like her and face torn up in grief far more real than her own detached disbelief.

Ayahe walked towards Sunon and looked down at her, lip trembling and eyebrows drawn down in a sad fury.

"I'm sorry," Sunon mumbled.

Ayahe slapped her across the face, bringing back pain that had just barely begun to settle. She slapped her again, making Sunon relive all those broken bones and bruised cartilage. It hurt far more the second time.

Sunon closed her eyes and hung her head in silence, then waited before opening them again. Ayahe was gone, and the door was closed. It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but those wounds she'd reopened had allowed reality to slip back in, if only a little bit. She rose from the chair, the blanket falling from her shoulders as she stepped out into the hallway. The station was nearly empty, but she could hear noise in the direction of the main lobby.

She wasn't quite sure what or who she was looking for, but her legs carried her forward. Gradually the noise turned to voices, and those voices became clearer. She leaned against a corner wall and peeked around to see Ayahe standing over the desk of a Corellian policeman. All around them the station was in a frenzy, officers crossing the field of cubicles as they went from hall to hall.

"We're still trying to—"

Sunon couldn't make out what the policeman was saying, and had to lean further around the corner.

"She is not my sister," came a woman's voice. Ayahe's lips were moving in time with the sounds, but the words didn't make sense. That couldn't be her. "She is an orphan whose parents left her." Ayahe ran a hand across her forehead and looked down. "Apparently that was not enough. She had to take mine, too."

Sunon's head reeled anew. The Sith staggered away from the lobby and back down the hallway, searching for a bathroom as a rising nausea gripped her stomach. She stumbled into an adjoining hallway, then into a room—this one colder than the rest.

Maliss was laid out on a metal table at the center of the examination room Sunon had wandered into, all but the Mandalorian's head covered by a medical tarp. That feeling of sickness vanished, as did the fog that had hung over her mind. Faced with this reality, only grief could remain.

Sunon stifled a sob and looked back to the closed door before walking over to the table and peering down at Maliss. Her eyes were closed, and her face was fixed in an expression Sunon had never seen on the woman in all her eighteen years—peace.

She ran a hand over her face, feeling what little heat had somehow still clung to her before letting it fall away and stepping back. Her heel struck something hard, and metal rattled against the floor.

Stashed in the corner behind her was Maliss' armor, riddled with blaster fire and streaked with blood. Gauntlets, breastplate, boots, leggings—all but the helmet. She picked up one of the gloves and pressed her hand to it, feeling the rubberized thermoweave under her fingertips. It was still warm.

* * *

Ayahe walked slowly down the side of the hall, making way for the Corellian police scrambling in and out of the station as she beat a slow path back to the conference room. Sunon was free to go, though the police captain had advised her to let them take her to a hospital for a more thorough examination than they had done at the precinct. He wasn't sure if she had heard him, so he had advised Ayahe to do so as well. If the police had realized what Sunon was, they had not seen fit to bring it up. Maybe they just couldn't believe that a Sith could be beaten that badly.

As for the suspects in her mother's murder, the captain assured her that they would not be leaving the city. The tram lines in and out had been shut down, and travel permits were being hand-checked at every starport. With the security footage the police had of the suspects, they wouldn't be getting far.

Or so he had said.

Ayahe wanted them found, and punished, and put in front of a firing squad. Of course she wanted that. But right then, what she wanted was to get her sister to a hospital and then home. This nightmare wouldn't end until both of them were sleeping in their beds, away from this madness.

She reached the conference room, but found it empty. A blanket was on the floor just outside, and a trail of wet footprints led back towards the station entrance... then back past the room again, further into the station.

Ayahe followed the latter trail, and her blood ran cold when she saw where it ended. They had asked her to identify her Mother's body when she had first arrived, but seeing her a second time was no easier. Shock had softened the blow when they had first revealed her face to Ayahe. This time, it was all too terribly real.

Seeing that Sunon wasn't there, Ayahe went to leave but stopped just short of opening the door. There was no one there, nothing new—but something had been taken.

Her mother's armor was gone.


	3. The Penitent

Despite its name, the D7-Mantis was no nimble ship of prey. It was a bulky blockade runner, designed to be able to blast through orbital defenses no matter how many artillery emplacements were firing at it. With retractable wings and jump jets on every surface, it could also land on any planet no matter how rough the terrain or horrible the weather. Being a transport, it also had space to spare. Most ships its size didn't have more than a single level, but the Mantis had three, packed on top of each other and wrapped around a warp drive that had never failed.

But most of all, it was adaptable. Sunon liked that. The ship had been with her ever since she had first fled her home on Tinnel IV for Corellia, but it looked nothing like it had two years ago.

And neither did she.

The ship's hull had been reworked, the plating replaced and painted with the grey and red colors of her mother's armor. Exposed wiring in the interior walls had been covered up with grey plasteel panelling, and the rusted grating that creaked with every footstep had been ripped out and replaced with sleek black flooring. Each room in the ship had a purpose. There was a medbay, with the latest in automated surgical technology where shrapnel could be removed without the need of a living doctor. A training room, with rubber matting and exercise equipment. A cargo bay, a workshop, a bedroom, a cockpit, a command room. A place for everything, and everything in its proper place.

Time, and a small fortune in credits had gone into turning the ship into something that suited her needs. Luckily, she had both—and nothing to spend it on, aside from her mission. What resources did not go into the ship went into her body. That, too, had been remade.

Sunon thought about that as she pushed up on the metal rings on either side of her, bringing her hands towards her side until her feet were well off the floor and her arms shook with exhaustion. She held that pose for a few moments before releasing her grip on the rings and dropping down to the mat below. Then she unhooked the belt around her waist, letting it drop to the floor along with the two forty-five pound weights attached to it.

She couldn't swap out her body for a new one, but there were ways to enhance it beyond its natural limit. Synthetic steroids allowed her to train without end, adding enough muscle mass that she no longer had any trouble filling out the armor she had inherited. That presented her with another problem—her connective tissue couldn't keep up with her increase in strength. Designer growth hormone saw to that. Then, nanite-delivered calcifying injections for bone density so that her skeleton would not crack under the strain she routinely put on it.

There were always new problems, but there were even more solutions. If she kept pushing, the problem would break before she did. It always did—and so would the one that had plagued her for two long years.

Corellian police never found her mother's killers. The trail had gone cold as soon as they'd picked it up, and no one in Coronet City knew anything about the group of Mandalorian mercenaries who had come to ransom a woman for a single sword. It hadn't taken long for the authorities to simply give up. Once the killers were off-world, there was nothing left to do. The Republic was weak, little more than an airing room for interplanetary grievances—not an overarching government. It had been nearly two decades since they had served as a mechanism for justice in the galaxy.

If Sunon would not be given justice, she would take it. No matter how long it took, or what she had to do to get it. She would find Tralus, and she would snap his neck. That was her sole promise to herself. Nothing else mattered, and everything she had surrounded herself with was in pursuit of that goal. The ship, her training, her equipment, and her job—bounty hunting.

Chasing down targets from the core planets to the outer rim was dangerous work. Not only did she have to worry about the target being dangerous, but bounty hunters always risked running afoul of whatever group passed for local law enforcement. Sometimes that meant bonafide police with uniforms and badges. Often it meant Trandoshans and Rodians with blasters and a license to kill from whatever mining outfit ruled an outpost with an iron fist.

Whatever the case, dangerous work demanded high pay. And violating that basic principle was what had allowed Sunon's meteoric rise as an independent contractor. At the end of the day, bounty hunting was a business. By undercutting every other merc in the business, she was never without a job. Selling herself short like that meant she wasn't building up a retirement fund like every other hunter, but credits wasn't why she was in this line of work.

Sunon re-racked the weights and hung the belt from the wall, just in time for the sharp electronic chirp sounding in every room on the ship. She headed down a hall and upstairs to the command room at the center of the ship's top level, then unlocked the communications console in the middle. A hologram was projected overhead, depicting a single quivering line in a haze of particles.

"Are you ready to work?" said the garbled voice on the other end. It switched voices mid-sentence, from a provincial Outer Rim woman to an Alderaanian nobleman, leaving the person behind the voice a mystery. Sunon had never met the Middleman. No one had.

"Depends on what you've got for me." Sunon leaned over the console and watched as the holographic particles coalesced into a 3-dimensional image of a robed woman. She wore an intricate veil that covered the top half of her face, leaving only her flat nose and dark skin as distinguishing features.

"A Miraluka?"

"And a Force user," the Middleman said. Like the red-skinned Sith species, nearly every member of the near-human Miraluka people was Force-sensitive to some degree—but the similarities ended there. There were few Miraluka members of the Sith Order, and a Sith serving as a Jedi was completely unheard of.

"You requested that I not let you cross paths with Clan Varad," said the voice.

Sunon's wandering attention shot back to the conversation at hand. She had made that request at the very start of her involvement of the middleman. For him to tell her who exactly had taken a contract alongside her was out of the question. Not that Sunon had names, anyway. What she had were faces and Mandalorian clan emblems, burned into her memory since that night two years ago. Most of the clans were massive, with millions of members spread out across the galaxy. A few—like Clan Varad—comprised no more than a few thousand. Only a fraction of those members were mercenaries, and even fewer of the caliber that could pull off what they had on Corellia.

One of those members was the one-eyed man who had let her into the Coronet City museum. He had worn armor with the Clan Varad razorback painted onto it.

So she had told the middleman a small lie. She had said that Clan Vizla—her mother's namesake clan—had bad blood with Varad, and that the two meeting in the field would obligate the two to a duel of honor. The broker had no desire to have his employees fighting it out and botching up contracts, so he was willing to make her that small concession of information.

"Well?" Sunon replied.

"There is a member of Clan Varad on this one."

She squeezed the rim of the console until it creaked under her grip. "How's the pay?" In truth, she didnt give one solitary shit how good the pay was. All she was thinking about was how she had finally found her man.

"Forty carats Alderaanian diamonds." Interstellar credits didnt count for much those days. Inflation was through the roof, and many planets had simply switched to local currencies.

"You know what?" Sunon said. "I'll take it."

The voice was silent for a moment. "Your feud won't be a problem?"

"Two years is a long time for Mandalorians. Things have settled down."

"Then the contract is set."

The call ended, and the middleman forwarded her the rest of the details. Most contracts she accepted were 'dead or alive', and most of the time she opted for 'dead'. Hauling living targets wasn messy. This one, however, was wanted alive—and that was fine. Live prey made better bait, anyway.

* * *

Ibayo ran her cupped hands up the young boy's leg, using the Force to feel the bone under a thin layer of muscle and fat. Her fingers tensed and a current shot from one hand to the other, giving him a barely perceptible shock.

"Can you feel that?" she said.

He jerked upright on the stool and laughed. "It tickles."

The woman sat back in her own chair and turned to the boy's mother. "The break is healed, but he should avoid putting weight on it for another week."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." She clasped her hands to her forehead and bowed impossibly low, then grabbed a loaf of bread wrapped in paper and handed it to Ibayo. She accepted it with a gracious smile, and set it on the table behind her before turning back to the boy. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he leaned forward to lift up the veil covering her eyes. He just as quickly let it drop, jolting back in silent horror. To Ibayo, it was just her face. No other Miraluka would have found it unusual. But to the boy, it must have looked as if someone had taken out a human's eyes and covered up the sockets with skin.

"Benno!" his mother hissed, slapping the side of his head. The boy hardly reacted, simply continuing his silent gawping. "Say thank you."

The boy hopped off his seat and grabbed his crutch from the floor, then shuffled out of the tent as quickly as possible. His mother gave Ibayo a sheepish smile and followed, pushing aside the tent flap to reveal the long line of refugees waiting outside. They were always there, from dawn to dusk. It had been two decades since the Eternal Empire had first devastated Darvannis, but the planet was still reeling from the invasion. The entire galaxy was.

For a time, the planet seemed to have recovered. Small industry returned, poisoned land was cleaned and made arable, and trade lanes were re-established into the galactic core. Then, the planet's inhabitants had returned, only to find their homes in ruins and their government impotent to enforce the rule of law across more than a few isolated cities. They became refugees, setting up sprawling camps of tents and shacks wherever they could. Some simply left the planet again. Others couldn't afford to.

Ibayo was one of the few to come to Darvannis with full knowledge of what it had become. She had made her way to a refugee camp and set up a tent on the edge of it, receiving patients in need of her care and accepting only what she needed to survive as payment. Then, she would move on. For years she had done this, always having to pack up in the dead of night before a lined could form at her tent the next morning.

There was no 'finishing'. There were always more sick. The camps were a breeding ground for disease, both of the body and mind. Ibayo could heal both, but she could not heal them all.

Angry shouts came from outside, and Ibayo rose from her chair to peak outside. Fighting was nothing new. Tensions ran high when people faced daily starvation and death. What she found was a more banal—but no less common—source of anger. Someone was skipping in line.

A tall, red-skinned Zabrak woman in a ratty brown cloak was marching up the length of the line, earning shouts and jeers from everyone she passed. One man tried to grab her and let her know just what he thought of line jumpers, but got pulled straight to the ground by her unbroken stride.

"Excuse me!" Ibayo said as the woman entered the tent. The Zabrak sat down in the chair, and Ibayo followed. "There were others here before you."

She folded her hands up in her cloak and hunched over. "I'll be quick."

People like this tested Ibayo's vows of nonviolence—but never seriously.

"What is bothering you?" Ibayo sighed, sitting down in the seat across from the woman.

"My head." She tapped her forehead. "Bad thoughts. I can't sleep at night without pills."

Ibayo held her hands out to the woman's temples. "May I?"

"Please."

As soon as Ibayo entered the woman's mind, she knew that something was wrong. It was like she had jumped into a lake expecting a great depth and struck bottom with the waterline at her ankles. Everything was closed off to her, except one little scrap of knowledge deliberately presented by the Zabrak—why she was here.

Ibayo slowly drew back, and the Zabrak opened her eyes as she pulled a pair of Force-dampener cuffs from under her robe.

"We can do this the easy way, or the—"

Before the woman could make a move, Ibayo launched herself from the chair and burst through the wall of the tent with a blast of Force that carried her down the sandy slope outside. It was midday, and dwellers in the camp below stopped their work to watch the robed woman sliding down rocks and dirt with unnatural balance.

Sparing a single glance back as she neared the edge of the village, Ibayo spotted the Zabrak pushing through the crowd in front of the tent and then launching herself down the slope after her. The woman tore off her robe as she skated down, revealing a scarred set of plated armor over a black bodysuit. Ibayo reached the bottom of the slope and took off running through tin shacks and flapping tents. The other woman didnt wait to hit flat ground. She flared her jetpack, shooting high overhead and raining down blaster fire while she circled above like a bird of prey. The shots shredded the homes on either side of her and pounded at the red dirt below, but the ones that nearly found their mark she blocked completely with a simple wave of her hand.

She knew that someday, someone would come. She had planned for this for years, always keeping an escape route in mind for each new camp she set up in. All she needed to do was to get to the other end of the village and the supply cruisers waiting there.

Ibayo slid under the cart of a merchant who had fled the approaching pair, then shot back to her feet before being pulled to the ground by a heavy weight on her back. Thick darts dug into the ground all around her, holding tight the cabled net stretched tight across her. An electric current shot through it and she screamed, writhing against the ground as she struggled to pull free.

"You're gonna want to stay down."

The Zabrak smacked down into the dirt behind the Miraluka and drew the pair of cuffs from her belt once again. Ibayo pressed her forehead to the ground and balled up her fists, bringing all her energy into a tight ball within her before letting it out in an explosive yell that flattened homes, tents, carts, and her pursuer. The net was shredded to pieces, and she was back on her feet with the burn of electric current still fresh on her back. Up ahead, a handful of hovering cruisers were waiting, repulsor jets kicking up dust that blanketed the lines of refugees waiting for them to unload their precious cargo.

"Stop!" the woman yelled. Ibayo didnt slow down one bit. She was nearly free.

"I'll shoot him!" came her frantic cry. Ibayo slid to a halt and turned around. The Zabrak was standing just behind the young boy she had treated, her blaster pressed to the side of his head. His body was frozen solid in fear, but his face twitched with sniffles and sobs.

"Wait!" another woman yelled. His mother shot out of the crowd, but stopped a good distance from the pair as the Zabrak's finger twitched on the trigger. Ibayo didnt move a muscle, and the hunter's eyes flickered to her as her hand went to the cuffs hanging from her belt. She tossed them to the dirt in front of the mother.

"Cuff her."

The mother picked them up and sprinted over to Ibayo, slapping the shackles on amidst frantic huffs. The effect was immediate. She could no longer feel the Force, as if a door had been slammed shut within her. The Zabrak lowered her blaster and released the boy, then marched over to Ibayo, who waited patiently as mother and son were tearfully reunited.

* * *

Back aboard Sunon's ship, she walked the Miraluka to the edge of the cargo bay and kicked her feet out from under her, dropping her down onto a bench. The hermit's beaded braids of hair rattled against each other with each swivel of her head, a racket Sunon was already growing tired of. Her ship was her temple, a refuge of silence away from each noisy, overcrowded outpost she was forced to navigate. This woman was defiling that sanctuary.

"Don't move."

She retrieved the collar she had prepared from a work table and snapped it around the woman's neck, then pressed a button on her wristband. A barely perceptible hum followed, indicating that the explosive lining the collar had been armed.

"If you try anything... if my heart stops, if I press this button—" Sunon pointed at her wrist. "Your head hits the ceiling. Understand?"

"Yes," said Ibayo.

Sunon undid the woman's cuffs and hung them neatly from a peg on the opposite wall among the other tools she had not elected to take along on her hunt. Most of it non-lethal, and most of it broken out especially for the hermit. Sunon preferred to work simple-a blaster, a knife, and her armor.

"You gave me a good workout." She turned around and walked back to the woman. "But I've never lost a target."

"I'm glad I could aid in your morning constitutional."

Sunon knelt in front of her and looked the woman over. It was hard to get a read on someone with no eyes, and the Sith had never been able to intuitively sense emotions the way most people could. Instead, she had read books. They had taught her what each curl of the lip and twitch of the nose said. Those little movements spoke volumes. Sometimes, they told her how afraid someone was. It was an emotion Sunon liked to see. Not because it brought her pleasure, but because it was useful—it made people predictable.

This woman, however, was not afraid.

"Aren't you going to beg for your life?"

Ibayo shrugged. "I have nothing to offer besides it."

Sunon rocked back on her heels and rose to her feet. "Doubt you could afford to buy your way out of this even if you did. You're worth a small fortune." It wasn't a lie. If Sunon were the kind of mercenary who dreamed about her retirement, she would have been busy picturing her Alderaanian villa that very moment.

"Then I am surprised were not already on our way to your employer. Surely others will be coming for me."

"Oh, I'm counting on it." The Sith grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. "I don't want their money. I want them. They're going to come for you, and I'm gonna kill 'em all." The words came fast and frenzied, and she found herself constricting Ibayo's wrist without meaning to. The woman winced in pain, and she eased her grip.

"You want to go back to your beggars and orphans? You can—if you help me." Sunon tapped her own forehead. "Go ahead. See if I'm lying."

Ibayo tentatively touched her fingertips to the woman's skull for a few moments before pulling back.

"I believe you."

"That's good." Sunon grabbed her hand and pressed it back to her temple. "Now see what I'll do if you fuck with me."

Ibayo swallowed and once again delved into her mind. Sunon felt her presence within for only a few seconds.

"Got a good look?"

Ibayo nodded, and Sunon pulled her to her feet by her hands and shook them up and down with a mad smile. For the first time, she saw fear on the Miraluka's sun-worn face. It was a comforting thing to see.

"Then that makes us allies."

* * *

Yanu strode down the rusted starport hall with three mercenaries on either side of him, clearing a path through the salvagers and refugees that had washed up there like human flotsam. He didnt like working with non-Mandalorians. He liked working with the Rodian and Trandoshan even less. The scaly bastards could hardly point a blaster, and he couldn't understand a word they said. There were advantages to hiring outsiders, though. Didnt have to pay them, for one thing. Whoever didnt die on the job he would just kill afterwards. That kind of behavior could earn you a rep, but only if the right people got wind—and the men he'd hired were nobodies. Not a soul in the galaxy would care about one more dead street thug on a planet like Darvannis.

"You!" Yanu shouted at a squirrely-looking docking manager. The man scampered towards him, looking around warily before leaning in to whisper to the Mandalorian.

"Are you Yanu?" he said.

"What the hell do you think." Yanu waved at the small army of mercs behind him, then looked around the busy hallway. "Is she still here?"

The man nodded fervently. "She must have asked half the station for a free ride. No one would give it to her."

Yanu laughed. The woman had caught wind of the bounty on her head and fled to the starport in a panic.

"I told her that there's a freighter coming in later today she can catch a ride on." The man pointed further down the corridor, towards a section of the starport limited to industrial ships and large haulers. "She's waiting in the last bay."

Yanu pulled a credit chit from his belt and held it in front of the man. "Keep everyone out of them halls." He motioned as if to drop it into the manager's outstretched hands before stopping at the last moment. "And I don't want to run into any goddamn cops if this gets noisy."

"Cops?" The man smirked and snatched the small card from him. "There aren't any cops here." With that he was off, smiling down at two months worth of pay as Yanu waved his men onward.

The starport grew quieter and emptier the deeper they went. Once upon a time there would have been a queue ten freighters long in the sky above, but it'd been decades since Darvannis had been a center of heavy industry. The Eternal Empire's invasion had seen to that.

The group stopped outside a huge set of doors closing off the docking bay ahead, and Yanu turned to his men.

"Stun guns only." He looked from one nervous merc to the other. "And don't get fancy. Shots to the chest and back."

The men grunted and nodded, and Yanu punched a button beside the door before pressing himseld to the edge of the doorway as the bulkheads slid aside with a groan. He'd be the one to take the woman down, he already knew that much—but even green mercs could still draw blaster fire. As soon as the doors had creaked open enough for a few men to slip through he waved the group in, filing in at the rear and bringing his own rifle off of his armored back.

The bay, a large circular space open to the orange sky above, was empty save for a few hover sleds and crates shoved up against the walls. That, and the lone Miraluka standing in the center of the room. She took off running as soon as she saw the guns pointed at her, but there were no exits besides the one behind the approaching mercenaries. Yanu smiled and motioned for the men to fan out, and they herded her against the far wall of the bay between two tall crates. He almost would have preferred she put up a fight—kill a few of his men off first.

But easy credits were always nice.

"Nowhere to run, missy!"

The hermit turned around and pressed her back to the wall. Yanu took a pair of heavy cuffs hanging from his waist and tossed them to the floor in front of her.

"It's that or the stun guns—and these aren't always so non-lethal."

A few of the men laughed, and the hermit gave them a sad look before cupping her hands over her ears.

"I'm sorry," she said.

The four walls of each crate on either side of her fell open, revealing two stationary turrets—and a Zabrak woman in heavy armor and heavier ear protection. Before any of the mercenaries could react a terrible vibration shot forth from the turrets, shaking their brains in their skulls and sending them to the floor in a tangle of twitching limbs of and foaming mouths. Yahu had felt the effects of a sonic disruptor before, but that had been a five-hundred credit handgun. These were anti-riot emplacements, designed to put an entire mob down. In that confined space and at that short a distance, the pain was nothing short of mind-shattering.

The Zabrak switched off the turret in front of her, then moved to the other one and did the same before removing her earmuffs. The assault might have been over, but Yanu couldn't even think about trying to stand. He tried to reach for the rifle he had dropped, but his neurons were firing too hot and too fast for any movement besides some sporadic twitching. The Zabrak drew her own blaster and walked among the mercs, firing shot after shot into them before she came to Yanu. One look at this face and she drew her gauntleted fist back, then sent it crashing into his face.

* * *

Sunon looked down at the unconscious Mandalorian she had chained to the docking bay wall. Bald, a scar over one dead eye, and stubble that had turned whiter since that night at the museum. This was him.

She drew a knife from her belt and hovered it over his armorless chest before moving it up to his face and nicking his cheek. The man shot wide awake, spitting and swearing all kinds of foul language while he shook his bound wrists.

"Remember me?" She waved the knife in front of his face, and his eyes followed it hypnotically.

"What the hell is this?" No doubt he wasn't happy with getting called out for a job and finding that he was the target. Sunon knew the feeling well.

"I want you to know I'm serious." She leaned to the side and grabbed his hand, pushing down all but his smallest finger into a tight fist. "And I'd hate to waste any more time," she spat through clenched teeth, then cut off his pinky with one savage swipe of her blade.

The man screamed and swore, then bit down on his lip as he let out pained groans.

"Now do you remember?" she shouted, shoving his head back against the wall. He managed to focus enough to give her a good look, and his eyes went wide in recognition. She was no longer that gangly young woman, but enough of the old her remained for him to recall one job among many.

"Your boss," she said. "That man—Tralus. I want to know where he is." She hovered the knife over his eye, giving him the impression she was about to plunge it down at any moment. It wasn't a bluff. Half of her wanted to stab him over and over in a bloody fit, but she knew how counterproductive that would be. She would save her anger.

"That was two fucking years ago," the man hissed. "You think I keep track of my employers?"

Sunon leaned her weight on his arms. "You know something. I know you do." Blood dripped from his severed stump of a pinky, and the mercenary grimaced against the pressure she put on him.

The mercenary laughed. "And you're gonna get it out of me? You ain't no torturer."

"You're right—but it's growing on me." She released his arms and sawed the next finger off, making the Mandalorian writhe and scream in his bindings. "I don't have to be a surgeon to cut you to little fucking pieces!" Without even meaning to she dug the knife into his thigh, drawing more blood still. "I'll take your eye, I'll take your cock, I'll leave you with stumps for arms!"

"Stop!" came a pleading shout behind her. Sunon had forgotten the hermit was still there. A forgetfulness that could have proved fatal, if the woman weren't still wearing her explosive collar.

"I can look inside his mind. This violence is not necessary."

Sunon didnt mind the violence, but she also didnt want her source of information bleeding out before he spilled his guts. There was a risk the woman could simply lie to her about what she had found, but there were ways to test against that.

"Do it." Sunon stepped back from the man, and Ibayo took her place.

"Clear your mind," she said.

The man scowled and bit his lip until he drew blood. "Fuck y—" His words ended the moment her fingers touched his temples, and his eyes rolled back until nothing but the whites showed.

"He's lying." She screwed up her face and twisted her head as she dug deeper. "This 'Tralus'—he is working for him now. He is the one who placed the bounty on me."

That all sounded a bit too coincidental for Sunon. She drew her blaster and pointed it at Ibayo's head.

"What does Tralus look like?"

The Miraluka's dark fingers twitched on the man's sweaty skull.

"Tall, blonde... a Mandalorian, like this one. With a hard face and sharp eyes."

That could have described a good quarter of Mandalore's men, but her response was good enough—and quick enough—to have Sunon stowing her blaster.

"Where is he?"

Ibayo groaned with exertion, a sentiment echoed by the mercenary slumped against the wall.

"He does not know. The exchange is supposed to take place on Taris."

The Middleman hadn't given her any details about where the dropoff would happen. That came after a target was safely in hand, to keep the losers from going after the victorious Bounty Hunter en-route to a delivery. Still, she knew the planet. It was within reach—and so would be Tralus.

"When? Where?"

"In three days." Ibayo shook her head and pulled her hands away. "A place, time—he doesn't know anything more. If I push further, he will break."

That didnt concern her. She might have forced the Miraluka to keep digging until she found every last scrap of useful knowledge crammed in that skull, but the Sith's mind had already turned to other matters. She knew where Tralus would be, and she knew when he would be there. That was far more than she had ever gotten. For two years the man had been a ghost. She'd feared he had retired to some wasteland of a planet with a new name and a new life.

That, or he had already died—and that would not be a victory. It needed to be her.

"You can't leave him like this." Ibayo gestured to the wounded, groggy man slowly regaining awareness.

"You're right." Sunon leaned down and slit his throat, then just as quickly cut the ties binding his hands to the pipe behind him. He scrambled forward, slipping on his own blood as he held one hand to his throat in a futile attempt to stem the flow. But there was no stopping it. Sunon had cut his jugular open, and within ten seconds the choking Mandalorian was flat on his face with only a single finger still twitching. Even then, she felt nothing. Certainly not regret, but not triumph, either. This man was a nobody—a thug, ammunition. She wanted the man who had fired the gun.

Ibayo stared at the man's body in horror, and Sunon wiped her knife on the woman's robed shoulder.

"I made you a promise, and I don't break my promises. I keep them." She pressed down hard, making the woman's shoulder dip under the flat of her blade. "But we're going to be travel partners for a little while longer."


	4. The Scoundrel

Sunon sat in the cockpit, feet extended under the console and hands folded on her lap, and eyes pointed forward at the dizzying warp tunnel flying past at the speed of light.

Faster than light, actually. It said something about the technological achievement of the hyperdrive that its very existence demanded new idioms and expressions to capture the experience. There was something oddly comforting about being carried along by something she couldn't understand. Normally she hated feeling like she wasn't in total control, but not now. Now, she felt relaxed. The flashing lights and low hum of hyperspace didnt let her sleep, but they did the next best thing and drowned out all the little thoughts that stuck in her mind like thorns. The tension that constantly gripped her shoulders dissolved, and as long as she was careful not to move, it was like she didnt even have a body. She wasn't herself anymore. It was as close as she ever came to meditation, a practice she was told her biological mother had been fond of.

Then, Sunon's fingers twitched. That was the first sign that something was wrong—it often was. She looked around the cockpit, then went back to the ship's command center. No messages on the comms console, and not a thing was out of place. A tingle kept crawling up her back, that itching sensation she got when something wasn't where it should be.

The hermit.

Sunon rushed down the stairwell and through a hall to the cargo bay. The door to the supply closet she had used as a makeshift holding cell was left ajar, and the Force dampening shackles she had put on the woman lay on the ground.

"You're in hyperspace, on _my _ship," Sunon called out as she drew her blaster. "If I have to wrestle you back in there, it's not gonna be pretty."

Whether or not the Force dampening cuffs were busted, they clearly were escapable, so that was no longer an option, and she couldn't simply tie up an unruly Force user and expect her to stay put. She would have to drug her unconscious. Luckily, Sunon kept just the right chemicals onboard for more benign therapeutic use on herself.

"Come out here." She tapped her blaster on metal as she weaved around crates in the cargo bay, eyes darting to every shadowed corner and tangled netting. If Ibayo had opened the door to the ship's interior, Sunon would have gotten an alert in the cockpit. Nor had she left since Sunon came down the stairs—she had kept an eye and ear on the door the whole time.

As she prepared to set her foot down on the grating, she heard a creak beneath her—but not _from _her. It was too soon. Sunon spun around, jamming her blaster into Ibayo's shoulder and squeezing the trigger. Ibayo had gotten the drop on her, though, and her hands gripped the sides of Sunon's head before she could react. In an ordinary brawl, getting caught by surprise wasn't the end as long as it didnt mean immediate death. If there was one thing Sunon could do, it was fight—for a long, _long _time.

But Ibayo didnt need to fight a battle of attrition, a war of bloodied fists and broken bones. All she needed to do was say one word.

* * *

"Sleep."

No nightmares.

Not even a dream. It was the deepest, most relaxing sleep Sunon had in years. That didnt stop her from waking up in a fury, though. The room was pitch black, but a few passes of her hands over the walls told her it was the same supply closet she had thrown her captive in. She could hear a distant rumble, but not from inside the ship, which was still. This came from further away, like the roar of another ship. They had landed.

Sunon found the door and held her boot just next to the handle, then gave it a few good kicks until the lock broke and the door flew open. The cargo bay ramp was open, and the forested swamp outside told her exactly where they had landed.

Taris—Sunon's original destination.

A maglev train roared across the ground a few hundred feet out, spraying up leaves and wet dirt as it beat a path to the city that lay miles in the distance. Towering skyscrapers shot right up out of the ground, with little in the way of suburbs or low-lying commercial outskirts to soften the transition from wilderness to urban center. The source of that odd layout lay in Taris' history. Long ago, much of the planet had been covered in multiple levels of tiered urban sprawl. It was a major hub of Republic industry and trade.

Then, Darth Malak's short-lived Sith Empire had turned the planet to slag. Rebuilding efforts began soon after, and rivers of blood, sweat, and tears had cleared the endless fields of wreckage and established some modest settlements. It was held up as a testament to Republic resolve. Now more than ever, with hundreds of worlds still recovering from the war with the Eternal Empire of Zakuul, people needed that hope.

But the rebuilding off Taris had begun over _three hundred years ago._

No one living now would be around to see worlds like Darvannis become anything resembling functioning members of the galactic community. Not their children, either. _Maybe _their children's children, in the case of some particularly long-lived species. The war had been a special kind of violence, inflicted on generations who didnt even exist yet.

Not that Sunon shunned all violence, when its aim was surgical and its goal was just. She looked down at her wrist communicator to see that she still had a fix on the hermit's collar. She may have been able to slip out of the cuffs, but clearly wasn't willing to risk prying a ring of explosives from her neck.

A smart choice.

So Ibayo had instead called her bluff, and bet that Sunon wasn't willing to blow her head off. She was right, and the Sith had no way to remotely subdue the woman. After this she would need to look into adding shock capabilities to the device. For now, she had to hunt her prey down the old fashioned way. Sunon made her way back up the ship's central stairway and into her bedroom, then discarded her armor in favor of a hooded beige robe that would allow her to blend in. She kept the fake horns and tribal markings, though. Here on Taris, she would need them more than ever.

With her disguise complete she left the ship, hopping from the ramp onto wet soil to make her way towards an an approaching maglev train. Unlike Darvannis, Taris had a functioning government—and law enforcement. Luckily, getting Ibayo back on the ship wasn't her goal. Letting the woman loose in the city had always been Sunon's plan. She would let her run around, get her face caught on camera, and see who showed up to claim her. With any luck that would be Tralus—or at least someone who would bring her a step closer to him. What she _couldn't _allow to happen was the hermit getting captured before Sunon got eyes on her. She needed to move fast.

Sunon stopped before the path the passing maglev train had carved into the ground and waited as the next one thundered towards her. She couldn't hide much under her robe, but she had kept her wrist guards—and the grappling hook coiled inside the sleeve. The train roared by, gusting her with air as she raised her hand and pointed it at the passing cargo containers. She squeezed her fist and bent her wrist, and a metal dart attached to a cable shot out and dug into the wall of one of the cars, undoing the spool of cable in her bracer so quickly that it began to smoke.

This was going to hurt.

* * *

After a windy ten-minute ride atop a hovering traincar, Sunon arrived in a trainyard on the outskirts of Olaris city. Construction droids the size of small spacecraft stomped to and fro, dumping vegetation into open cars that were then sealed up and pushed into line with others in preparation to leave the station. The entire setup looked to be automated, and the Sith was able to climb over the perimeter fence without being spotted. That put her in the middle of a dozen factories and waste disposal sites, but nowhere near her target. Her wrist computer couldn't give her an exact fix on the collar, but it put Ibayo at least ten kilometers deeper inside the city. That was a problem. There were no taxi stops or tram lines nearby—nothing but endless factories and streets full of unmanned load lifters moving from building to building. Hijacking one was possible, but a big risk. There was a reason she hadn't simply flown her ship to the starport. She didn't want to risk her arrival being known.

So, she ran. Through half-empty streets and chugging factories, slowing down only to check Ibayo's position on her wrist. The woman hadn't moved more than a hundred feet since Sunon had left her ship. That, at least, was good, but it didn't do much to quell her worry. She paced herself, resisting the urge to break into a full sprint to get to her bait before someone working for Tralus grabbed the hermit. If that happened, all was lost. Her first lead on the man in two years would be gone. Worse—he would know she was looking for him.

She had often lay awake and wondered if he thought of her like she thought of him. Obviously his feelings wouldn't resemble hers—he had no reason to hate her with the deep-down burning passion she kept kindled in her chest. But did he ever wonder what had happened to the Sith who escaped him? Did he worry about the loose ends he had left dangling that night on Corellia?

Eventually, she decided that he had most likely forgotten about her entirely. She had only met him briefly, but even then could tell he was not a man who gave himself over to rumination and second-guessing. He was one of those grandiose types that liked to call themselves _'men of vision'. _Someone who always looked forward, never back. The fact that he probably didn't give her any thought made her furious. Then, that too, she came to terms with. Her revenge would be like a blade that came out of the darkness with no warning. There was no poetic justice or irony about the fate she envisioned for him. Just one man, who killed one woman too many.

Sunon looked down at her wrist again. Ibayo was close. The factory district had given way to gleaming government buildings of silver and white that seemed to grow taller the deeper she moved into the city. The factories to her rear with their rust and grime had been ugly, but suited the swampy planet. Not only did _this _area look out of place on Taris, but Sunon herself stood out awkwardly in the clean surroundings of the government district. Everyone she passed flashed her odd looks and gave the 'Zabrak' a wide berth. No doubt Sunon looked like a lunatic beggar, racing through the streets in a robe and muddy boots while panting with exhaustion.

Despite the distance they kept, they were all moving in the same direction as she was. Government officials and military personnel in formal dress, many carrying along loved ones in hooked arms. They were converging on a walled compound that sat much lower than the towering buildings around it. As Sunon drew closer to the open gates, she noticed a flag flapping in the breeze above. It depicted a white leaf below a red drop of blood, atop a green background—Mandalore's flag.

Ibayo had sought refuge in the first embassy she could find. Or worse—Tralus, a Mandalorian, was working out of the embassy and had captured her. Both possibilities had her breathing even harder than when she had been running. Sunon pressed herself to the compound wall, then slipped in behind one of the gate guards as he scanned the crowd for anyone suspicious like herself. The inside of the walled embassy grounds was a vast garden of greenery and fountains. A stone path led to a square building in the center, an odd construction of modern metal features adorning ancient wood and marble. Dozens of windows lined the three floors of the embassy, and a string of guests ran down the path to the entrance. Sunon did her best to blend in with them, but drew even more stares than she had outside the compound.

As she drew closer and scanned the outside of the building in an effort to find an alternate route inside, she realized such a thing was unnecessary. There was Ibayo, meandering around the exterior of the embassy like some uncertain functionary. A gold-plated droid was playing gatekeeper at the front doors, checking the invitations of the people in line one after the other. A few well-dressed guards with holstered blasters were keeping watch as well, but the droid was the one she would have to get past. No doubt that was the source of the hermit's hesitation. She couldn't use her powers of Force persuasion on a robot.

Sunon strode over as fast as she could without breaking into a run, shoving through the gathered politicians before grabbing Ibayo by the neck and dragging her behind a corner of the main building.

"You think you can run from me?" She pinned Ibayo against the wall and pointed her exposed wristguard at her. It might not have looked very threatening, but the hermit was smart enough to know that contained within were multiple methods of disabling her.

"I've been waiting for you," said Ibayo. Sunon glared at her in confusion, and the hermit cast a wary eye at the guards patrolling the embassy gardens. "You may want to lower that." She tapped Sunon's bracer. "Pretend we're having a normal conversation."

Sunon hated being told what to do by a woman who was nominally her captive, but she was right. Now wasn't the time or place to try and show who was in charge. The collar was reminder enough. She lowered her arm and stepped back.

"Explain," Sunon said. "Why make me chase you here?" An embassy wasn't the strangest place to seek refuge, but Ibayo hadn't run screaming for the guards. That, at least, made Sunon willing to listen.

"I was not completely forthcoming with you on Darvannis. When I looked inside the Mandalorian's mind, I saw a plot—to kill someone." She nodded at the building behind her.

"Well? Who?"

"I did not see a name. Only a face."

"Why the _hell _would you not tell me that?" Sunon was tempted to lift her up by her neck, but reminded herself not to make a scene. She was having trouble enough keeping her voice down. "I _told _you I want the man who put a bounty on you."

"But do you care about stopping a murder?" came the cool response. Ibayo was right to think that the Sith didn't care—she didn't. In any other situation, she would have clubbed the hermit over the head and tossed her over the embassy walls, then dragged her back to the ship. But Sunon had a very good reason to concern herself with what she had just been told.

"Tralus will be here." Sunon scanned the palace grounds, noting guard patrols and the building's layout. "He was last time."

"Last time?" Ibayo wondered aloud. The Sith didnt answer. She was busy unwinding Ibayo's cloth armwraps.

"Give those to me."

She was confused, but obeyed. The Sith pulled off her muddy boots and tossed them into a nearby bush, then took the strips of cloth from Ibayo and wound them about her feet.

"You're my servant," said the Sith.

"You plan to get inside looking like that?"

Sunon knew she looked like a beggar, but there were still two things to take away from her disguise. She wiggled the horns on her head until they came loose, then took the two discs off of her chest that maintained her fake facial markings. As the last black lines on her cheeks faded, Sunon dropped the horns into Ibayo's hand.

"I'm not a Zabrak drifter," said Sunon. "I'm a Sith ascetic." Instead of trying to blend in with the prim and proper crowd—a tall order for her and the Miraluka—she would do her best to stand out.

Ibayo rolled the horns in her hand for a moment before looking up at her in realization. "You're a Sith?"

Sunon didnt bother responding. The hermit seemed to have more questions past the obvious, but the crunch of grass behind Sunon had her glancing back to see a guard approaching.

"Is everything alright here?" The question itself was polite, but his tone made it clear that he wasn't happy about two women lurking in secluded areas of the embassy grounds.

"Mind your own business!" snapped Sunon as she turned to face him. The man recoiled, giving both women one last frightful glance before returning to the embassy entrance. His reaction wasn't surprising. It was the same she'd seen on the few occasions she went out without her usual Zabrak disguise. She was a Sith, chastising a woman who looked like a servant outside of an embassy. The guard must have taken her for a visiting ambassador from the Sith Empire.

Not that it was much of an Empire anymore. It may have ultimately fared better than the invading Eternal Empire, but the Sith had fractured into dozens of different cliques and fiefdoms, many no more than a single system in size. To make matters more confusing, factions routinely splintered and re-formed as they waxed and waned in power. No one in the galaxy could possibly keep a mental list of which Sith mattered. If you were, say, an embassy guard, you simply had to assume that any Sith was someone of importance until proven otherwise.

As a bounty hunter, that sort of attention was never what she wanted. Here, it was exactly what she needed.

Sunon waved Ibayo along with her and made her way to the front entrance and up the stairway. Every lined-up guest they passed muttered their distaste at the line-cutters or exhaled sharply in frustration, though none protested louder than that. Before the pair reached the doors they were stopped by the reception droid and a human guard. The one who had interrupted Sunon earlier stood nearby as well, and eyed her nervously.

"Invitation, please." The droid held out a hand, palm extended downward and holoreader ready to scan whatever invite they were supposed to have arrived with.

"Ibayo." Sunon jerked her head at the droid while keeping her gaze fixed forward and nose turned up in a show of regal arrogance. "Invitation."

The woman patted her hands up and down her robe, making a great display of searching as Sunon became ever more visibly irritated.

"I don't have it, Mistress."

The Sith drew a sharp breath inward, nostrils flaring and forehead creasing as she spun about.

"You _what?"_

Ibayo cowered and held her hands out protectively. "I must have left it on the ship. A thousand apologies, Mistress." It was good acting, but fear wasn't hard to fake with the much larger Sith bearing down on her.

"The ship _left _already, you idiot!" Sunon cocked back her arm as if to backhand the other woman.

"Hey, hey!" The guard from earlier rushed over, backed up by two comrades who had not themselves been willing to intervene. "Just give us your name, alright?"

Sunon cleared her throat and leaned in towards the droid. "Sunon Vathamma." Her birth mother's surname was the first Sith name to come to mind, and it was as good as any other. The droid stood silent for a few moments, then emitted a harsh buzz.

"My apologies. You are not on the list."

"I'm not on the list?" Sunon sputtered in mock disbelief and turned to the waiting line of people on the steps below her. "And these people are?" She pointed at a man in Republic formal dress. "Who are you? An office drone? Some glorified accountant?" Her attention went to a tentacled Twi'lek woman further up the steps. "And you! A dancer? Hired entertainment for the men without wives?" Groans of disgust and angry jeers came from the crowd. Sunon ignored them and spun back to the guard.

"I will not be embarrassed like this!" She pointed a finger at his face. "Do you want to explain to your employer why relations with the Trasskian Sith Ascendancy suddenly went cold?"

Her accent was starting to slip, but the bewildered man was too busy trying to figure out what she was talking about to notice. Clearly he had never heard of such a political body. Neither had she.

"Alright, just—" He looked from her, to the ever-growing line, to the embassy doorway behind him, then sighed. "Please head inside, and accept our apologies. We'll try and figure out what happened to your invitation."

Sunon strode past him without another word, followed shortly by Ibayo. As soon as they were inside they hit a wall of other guests, though there seemed to be a general flow of movement towards a larger room up ahead. They shoved through and entered a grand hall lined with tables set under balconies, all of them packed with people. The center of the room had been set aside as a dance floor, and a dozen or so couples twirled about with joined hands.

Bounty hunting tended to put one in odd environments, but this was by far the most alien one Sunon had ever experienced. Not only did she feel out of place, but she looked it, too. Without fail, every set of eyes she passed shot to her and then darted quickly away, never to look back. A bare-foot Sith in a simple robe was a strange sight in this high society gathering. She didnt blame them for staring.

"Well?" Sunon muttered to Ibayo.

"Pale skin, blonde hair, very pretty."

Sunon scanned the crowd and noted a dozen faces that matched the description. No doubt dozens more were scattered throughout the packed embassy. Ibayo was the only one to have actually seen her face, but the shorter woman couldn't see above the heads around her.

"Go find an empty chair to stand on," Sunon whispered to her.

Ibayo stared at her for a moment. "You know I don't have eyes, right?"

The veil made it easy to forget. Miraluka could use the Force to 'see' in a certain sense of the word. They claimed to see the reality underlying everything else, and could pick out subtle changes in a person's emotions or even sense ill-intent behind the words of the most practiced liar. But apparently, picking out a face in a crowd was beyond her.

"Describe her better," said Sunon. There were just too many people to sort through. It seemed impossible.

"I have a better idea." Ibayo grabbed her wrist, and Sunon felt a tingle like sparks creeping up her arm. "Open your mind. I will see what you see."

Sunon wasn't one for opening up. She certainly didnt like the idea of throwing open the gates for a Jedi to probe around in. Unfortunately, she didnt have any other options. At some point that door guard would run a check on her, see she wasn't who she claimed to be, and she would be ejected from the party she had crashed.

"I don't want you digging in there," she hissed at Ibayo.

"There's nothing in that head I would want." She gripped the Sith tighter, ensuring her hold was secure. "Look around."

Sunon did as requested, slowly swiveling her head from side to side as she circled the edge of the dance floor. Most of the faces in the room were pointed there, though the slow and clumsy dancers were more just something to stare at while people chatted with each other. Sunon caught snippets of conversation here and there. Core world politics, Tarisian immigration efforts, the reestablishing of old hyperlanes—too complex to understand in bits and pieces, and too dry to care about. Her attention shifted back to the dance floor, where she noticed a man and a woman moving faster than the rest.

"There!" hissed Ibayo. The woman certainly fit the description. Fair skin, long golden hair, and enough jewelry that her natural beauty was almost obscured by the glint of gold and gems. The blue-uniformed man twirling her about had dark hair, a fashionable amount of stubble, and a boyish charm that his dance partner seemed enthralled with. She laughed as he led her across the floor, stumbling here and there while he didnt miss a step.

Sunon cleared her throat and leaned in towards the man beside her. "Who is that woman?"

The old man gave a polite laugh, as if he wasn't sure the Sith was serious. "Thats our host."

"Our host?"

"Nara Jendri. Mandalorian representative to the Republic."

"The Republic?" Sunon eyed him doubtfully. "Mandalore isn't in the Republic."

"Ambassador, I should have said." He shrugged and gestured at the dancing pair. "And who knows, someday soon they may join. God knows she's pushing for it."

The elegant young women didnt look a thing like the Mandalorians Sunon had met in her two years spent on the edges of known space. Out there, among the mercenaries and warlords, it was easy to forget that many Mandalorian clans had become domesticated.

A tug on Sunon's sleeve brought her attention back to Ibayo.

"That man she is with. He is plotting something."

Moments after her warning the dancing pair began to slow their waltz and edge towards the edge of the dance floor.

"You'd better not be bullshitting me," Sunon muttered to her.

"I am not _bullshitting _you. He intends to do something bad. I can sense it."

This is what Sunon had been waiting for. She just hadn't expected to have to make a move so soon. Nara leaned in towards her companion and whispered something, then entered the crowd and made her way to an open doorway at the side of the room. The man went off in a different direction, then doubled back and followed her into the hall. They were meeting up somewhere else—somewhere private.

"Stay here." Sunon jabbed a finger at the ground. "You don't leave this building without me."

* * *

Gamin rounded another corner in the embassy halls, and the crowds that had grown thinner vanished entirely. The party could still be heard through the walls, but there wasn't a soul in sight until a sealed set of doors ahead of him slid open.

"Psst!" Nara leaned out and beckoned him forward. He jogged over and slipped inside the room just before the door closed behind him. She flipped on a light switch, illuminating dozens of pedestals lining the long, pillared hall he was now in. Each one was topped by an artifact on display as a symbol of Mandalorian cultural heritage. A cracked vase, a rusted sword, an ancient stone tablet—none of it looked very valuable.

"We're all alone," said Nara.

"Well, not quite." He pointed at a security camera in a nearby corner. Nara flashed him a smile and went to the control panel beside the door, and within seconds the room's surveillance was switched off. Politicians and royalty had to be careful about extra-marital affairs, even within their own home. No cameras meant no surveillance footage of what they were about to do.

Nor what _he _was about to do.

"_Now _we're alone." She turned back to him and slid her hands over his neck, then pulled him in close. Their lips met and he grasped her waist, spinning her about and pushing her back against a pillar. Her eyes were closed but his remained open, scanning the room and its many treasures. Finally, one of them caught his eye—a jeweled necklace, flashing gold and green in the light, plenty small enough to fit in his pocket.

His lips began to slip from Nara's but she grabbed his cheeks, bringing their faces back together. Keeping one hand on her hip, Gamin extended the other out past her and felt for the necklace. It was a good ten meters away, but the room was empty enough and the necklace small enough that he had little trouble using the Force to lift it from its stand and draw it slowly towards him through the air. The piece of jewelry was only halfway to him when his mind turned to other matters. Namely, the woman thrusting her tongue into his mouth. He'd told himself earlier that he would be out of the embassy as soon as he'd gotten what he'd came for. On the other hand, he really liked Nara. You could steal someone and still like them, after all.

Nara pulled back from their kiss, her eyes still closed and forehead resting on his. "Let's find a bench," she whispered.

His silent deliberation ended there. As he focused on pulling the necklace the rest of the way to him before they moved positions, Nara's eyes shot wide open and then narrowed sharply.

"What are you doing?" she barked out. He dropped the necklace, thinking she had caught him red-handed. Then he noticed that her vision was focused on something behind him. A towering, red-skinned woman in a beige robe stood in the doorway. He hadn't even heard the door open.

"Get away from her!" the intruder snapped, raising her clenched fist and pointing it at him. She had no weapon in hand, but he caught a glimpse of something metallic wrapped around her shrouded arm. Even without that, her size alone had him raising his hands and backing away from both her and Nara.

"She was just showing me your many cultural artifacts," he said with a reassuring smile. Despite the distance he put between he and Nara, the Sith continued to advance.

"Who are you?" Nara shouted. "Get out of here this instant!" She laid hands on the strange woman, only to be rudely tossed back towards the doorway.

Gamin turned to run, but she caught his collar before he could make a move, throwing him back against a pillar.

"Where is Tralus?" A knife shot out of the Sith's wristguard and she pointed it between his eyes.

"W-who?" he stammered. The woman's expression hardened and she squeezed his neck.

"You'll tell me everything you know." Her entire body quaked, and he thought she might snap him in two from sheer rage. "I'll take your eye, your fingers, your nose, until you tell me where he is!"

He had no idea what she was talking about, but sheer terror overwhelmed any ideas about questioning her further. This woman was going to kill him, and he didnt even know why.

"Guards!" screamed Nara out the open doorway. She moved to help Gamin, but seemed to double-think that plan once she took another look at the Sith. He couldn't blame her—he had tried to run away himself.

"You've got to the count of ten to give me a location." The Sith's voice was a low whisper that trembled as she spoke. It wasn't fear, though. He could tell that much. She was trying to hold back her anger. "Those guards will be here after that. You won't." Her knife slid down to his neck and dug into his flesh, making him wince in pain as warm blood trickled down. Even if he could manage to get a few words out with her choking the life out of him, what could he say to satisfy her? He was a dead man.

"One..."

As he closed his eyes and embraced a strange end to a stranger life, he saw something. A long, form-fitting black helmet with two red eyes appeared from thin air behind Nara, a foot above her head. Two ivory tusks jutted out of the mask's jawline, giving it the appearance of a hunter's trophy. The air continued to ripple, and a pair of broad shoulders appeared as well.

"Two," said the Sith.

Nara's eyes were focused on Gamin's, but she looked as shocked as him. He didnt know why until his eyes travelled lower, to the red blotch of blood spreading outward from the left side of her chest. She gasped and choked, then looked down at the sword thrust through her chest.

"Three."

Nara's death was silent. Neither she nor Gamin made a noise, but the Sith seemed to sense what had happened only a split-second after he did. Maybe she saw his eyes focused on Nara instead of her, or saw shock and anguish replacing fear. Either way, she released Gamin, spinning about and shooting her knife from her bracer at the assassin. It came within an inch of taking Nara's ear off. It didnt come anywhere _close _to the assassin. He was already on the move, throwing Nara from his blade and rushing at the Sith. Gamin staggered away from the pair to Nara, catching her just before her head struck the ground.

"Nara!" He shook her, but her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Blood streaked the marble floor where she had fell, and more ran from both sides of her torso, soaking his pants. Too much blood.

"Guards!" The word caught in his throat halfway through. It didnt matter—he could already hear feet beating down the hall outside. And Nara was dead, anyway. She hung limply in his arms, muscles slack and body running cold as her warmth bathed him.

Behind him, the assassin was closing in on the Sith. He took short, careful jabs at her with his blade, ducking around pillars and swiping aside priceless antiques as he sought to disable her. The Sith stumbled and rolled away, but it wasn't like the times Gamin found himself on the losing side of a melee. This was practiced, purposeful. Each change in her stance forced the assassin to either overextend or draw back, an advantage the Sith pressed in attempts to disarm him or take swiping kicks at his legs, all while keeping her hands ready to catch his should he try to strike at her with the blade.

Then, she _did _catch it. Her hand squeezed his, forcing him to drop the blade into her waiting palm below. It was a masterful move, and for a moment he expected to see her thrust the sword through the assassin's heart—but she stopped. Her entire right side jerked and spasmed, as if an electric shock ran through it. Later he would realize that the weapon had been booby-trapped, rendered unusable by anyone but the wielder. But right then, the Sith seemed to have had a stroke out of nowhere. The assassin picked up his sword and raised it above her exposed chest, ready to strike.

Gamin didnt move a muscle. He couldn't say it was because he was more worried about the Sith than the assassin. The latter had just run a sword through the heart of the woman lying dead in his arms. No, it was something much simpler than that. It was fear. He was afraid to act.

Just as the Sith was about to receive the same fate, the patter of feet reached the doorway—but it wasn't a guard.

A dark-skinned woman with a veiled face and woven robe shot into the room, slid to a quick halt, and raised her open hands at the assassin. The assassin pulled back immediately, taking off in a full sprint towards the other end of the room—but there was no door, only a solid wall of metal and wood. As the assassin ran, he took something from his belt and hurled it against the wall, blowing a gaping hole outward that he then leapt through to the courtyard below. The veiled woman ran past the prone Sith in pursuit, but seemed to give up once she saw the distance that had formed between them. She ran back, giving Gamin—and the dead woman in his arms—a quick glance before kneeling down beside the Sith.

"Don't worry. The guards are coming."

"Guards?" the Sith spat, rolling onto all fours. "Look at this!" she gestured at Gamin and Nara. The assassin was gone, his victim was dead, and the murder weapon lay on the ground a dozen feet away. It looked as if the Sith had just killed her. Worse—it looked like _he _had just killed her.

"Red tauntaun!" the Sith shouted at the other woman. She looked just as confused as Gamin, until her necklace unsnapped and fell to the ground. The Sith picked it up and hurled it past him into the hallway, towards the approaching guards he could hear as a roar of clanking boots and clattering rifles. The hall exploded in a shower of marble and wood, knocking him flat to the ground and pelting him with debris. He opened his eyes to see Nara's lifeless face staring back at him, and nearly shrieked in horror before a hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out from under her.

"You're coming with me." The Sith's face was inches from his. He might have nodded—he wasn't sure. Before he knew it, he was running with the two women towards the evening sunlight streaming in from the hole the assassin had escaped through. The Sith's hand remained on his collar, pulling him along faster than his legs could move. When he reached the edge, he didnt have to think about jumping—she threw him.

* * *

Sunon hit the ground running. Her captive didnt. The man hurtled from the second floor of the embassy, hit the grass, then rolled on his side until his starched dress blues were painted a deep green. He was dressed like a naval officer of the Republic, but that had to be a disguise. Whether he was working with the assassin or not, he and Sunon both wanted the same thing—to not get captured by Tarisian authorities. Once that was accomplished she could ask him a few pointed questions. For now, she was his savior. She ran back, picked him up, and then threw him towards the embassy gates, propelling him into a run once again.

A large crowd was gathering on the front lawn to gawk at the gaping hole they had just jumped out of, and a few guards pushed through the crowd to try and take charge of the situation. Behind Sunon and her two companions, the guards she had delayed with Ibayo's collar reached the inner wall and spotted the Sith who no doubt stood out like a sore thumb. They shouted at her, though she couldn't make out the words over the shrieks and yells of panicked partygoers. Any second now, those guards were going to start shooting.

Sunon reached the edge of the crowd and decked a guard who was managing the crowd with a single punch, then picked up his rifle and fired wildly at the outside of the embassy. The first few laser bolts went through the hole in the wall, forcing their pursuers to take cover. The next dozen she swept across the entire front of the building, shattering windows and taking chunks out of walls.

Then, the rifle was ripped from her hand and thrown off into the distance. Not by a hand, but by an unseen force. She spun around and spotted Ibayo standing within the fleeing crowd near the gate, open palm pointed at the Sith.

Regardless, the shots had their intended effect. Whatever order the guards inside the embassy had managed to keep broke down, and the front doors were thrown wide open by a surging tide of people that spread out into the courtyard amidst panicked screams and urgent cries. She turned back to the gates and joined Ibayo in a full sprint towards the street ahead, quickly merging with the seething mass of fleeing guests. She was half-tempted to haul the hermit to the ground and lay into her, but she held back for the same reason she had let loose on the embassy and sown so much chaos.

They needed to escape—fast.

It wasn't just a matter of getting out of the government district, or even out of the city. The longer they remained on Taris, the wider a net authorities would cast and the more resources they would bring to bear in their search. System patrols would converge over the city in space, orbital defenses would come online, and starports would shut down in an effort to catch the three people suspected of murdering a Mandalorian ambassador. Their escape didnt need to be clean—it just needed to be soon. Sunon rolled up her sleeve as she ran, pressing a few buttons on the computer before turning her attention to the crowd.

For a few terrifying moments, Sunon thought she had lost the third of their group. Then, as she neared the gates, she spotted him. He wasn't trying to get away from her, or even moving at all. His back was pressed up against the gate post, eyes darting around frantically until he spotted her running towards him.

Sunon recognized the wide-eyed look. This wasn't a man who was used to being thrown into the deep end of life. He sure as hell wasn't an assassin. He had no idea what to do, and she was the only person who was giving him some direction. That meant he would follow her—even if she had nearly killed him.

As she neared him she went to grab him by the jacket again, but he broke out into a run beside her. Ibayo trailed along behind the two, and soon all three were a block away from the embassy, weaving between government buildings in cramped alleyways. Most of the fleeing crowd had stopped at the street outside, huddling behind the assumed safety of the courtyard walls. That noise grew distant, leaving the sound of sirens that grew nearer and more numerous with each passing second.

"_Where _are we running?" Ibayo gasped out at her. "Or are we just running mindlessly?" Sunon could tell from her voice that the woman was getting tired, and the man beside her was dripping with sweat and grimacing up at the sky in pained exertion.

"There." Sunon pointed out the alley and across a main road to a park in the center of the district. No doubt the other two were confused by her answer, but they weren't in any position to protest. Nor did it matter if they understood.

The trio shot out into the street, bringing traffic to a screeching halt. What few cruises weren't automated careened onto sidewalks and ran into one another. Sunon slid over the hood of one such car, and as she jumped spotted a few of the flashing sirens drowning out all other noise in the vicinity. They were surrounded.

Then, another noise broke the dull wail of the police cruisers. A harsh screech, far more ominous than the sirens overpowered by it. But too Sunon, it was a comforting noise. A thunderous _boom _sounded up above the street across from the park as a red-and-grey blockade runner took out a chunk of skyscraper in its speedy descent towards her. She had modified the Mantis for automated landings, but even in a landing space as big as this it wasn't perfect. Normally she would be able to make manual adjustments through her wrist computer, but she was too busy running for her life to worry about some property damage. They were already wanted for far worse than that.

The jets on the bottom of the Mantis roared as it neared the ground, setting a gazebo alight before the bulky ship crushed it to bits. The ramp slammed down on the grass, and all three sprinted into the vessel's cargo bay. Ibayo and the Republic man slowed down as soon as they saw the ramp closing behind them, but Sunon didnt stop there. She knew that the most dangerous part of their escape was just minutes away. She hauled up the stairwell and ran down the hall to the cockpit, not even bothering to sit down before she triggered the ship's autopilot to take them into orbit.

With that done she sat down and buckled in, taking over from the autopilot as the ship lurched from the ground and angled towards the sickly green sky above. The ship shook and shield alerts sounded out, but that was just small arms fire. The worst was yet to come.

Jump jets took the ship into orbit, throwing her head back and making her chest feel as if someone had heaped a building on it. She could only wonder at how the two in the cargobay were faring, and the thought had a slight smile flickering across her face.

The mottled green sky gave way to the clean, crisp blackness of space, and her grin disappeared. Cruisers and swarms of frigates were converging above. More ships dropped out of hyperspace behind them, heralded by flashes of light and followed by alerts on the console in front of her.

First one lock. Then two. A dozen. Two dozen. Ship after ship got a fix on her, turning in space in preparation to fire. She had already prepped the hyperdrive during their ascent, but they were still too close to Taris to risk a jump. Doing so now would risk being torn apart by the planet's mass shadow.

She _knew _that, but the ever-narrowing corridor of empty space in the gauntlet of ships ahead stood as a reminder of what awaited if she delayed. Not capture—death.

The turret batteries on the Republic ships erupted in a display of red and green light, and a split second later her ship was rocked by enough cannon fire to take down all but a sliver of her shields. The Mantis was meant to run blockades, not entire armadas. The cockpit filled with the sound of alerts and warnings, all telling her what she already knew—one more round like that, and it was over.

Her sweaty fingers wrapped around the lever for the hyperdrive, and her eyes flickered down to the console. They still weren't far enough out. The edge of a vast grey sphere wrapped around their green blip on the map, showing that Taris still had them in its grasp. Then, her gaze shot back to the window in front of her. Red and green lights all across the line of ships, beginning as a faint glow before growing into a blinding fireworks display. Space itself seemed to erupt, and Sunon wrenched down on the lever. A seamless white replaced the colorful array of blaster fire, then twisted and churned into the familiar sight of a warp tunnel.

Sunon slumped back, letting her trembling hand slip from the lever. Her heart was racing, her ears rang, and reality seemed to take on a sharper quality, like she could tune nothing out. It was always like this after close calls. She could keep her cool when circumstances demanded, but once she was in the clear that debt came back with a vengeance.

Steadying her shaking arms, she pushed herself from the chair and went back to the cargo bay. There were shouts—two voices, one far more frantic than the other.

"You need to _calm down." _Sunon stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the bay to see Ibayo attempting to soothe the red-faced man in front of her.

"Calm? Calm!" the man shouted. He ruffled his hair madly, sounding as if he was on the verge of alternately laughing and crying all at once. Sunon took the remnants of her own shock and pushed them down deep, then stalked calmly down the stairs. As she reached the bottom the man spotted her and rushed over.

"Let me off!" He spat the words right into her face, but it wasn't bravery allowing him to get so close to her. It was panic. When she didnt respond he took a step back, drew a deep breath in, then waved a hand slowly across her field of vision.

"You _will _let me off at the nearest starport with all your credits." The words were ridiculous, but the tone of his voice was a soothing warmth that wrapped around her. It seemed impossible, but there was no mistaking the pull she felt on her mind. Sunon drew her fist back, then brought it crashing into the man's gut. All the air left his lungs as a pained wheeze, and he fell to his knees.

"Did you just try to use the _Force _on me?" she said.

"Enough!" Ibayo stormed over to Sunon. Only her mouth was visible beneath her veil but it was drawn down in a furious scowl. "You might have killed someone back there. Do you even care?"

Without her collar, the hermit was more dangerous than ever. Sunon kept her at arm's length, one hand poised at her throat and the other cocked back, ready to strike.

"Don't you dare touch me," she spat. The woman backed off, and Sunon gestured at the man on the ground beside her. "He's dangerous!" She said the words mockingly, imitating Ibayo's own breathy voice. "He's going to do something. I can sense it!" Sunon jabbed a finger at her. "If I killed _anyone, _its _your _fault."

The Sith spun about and stormed over to a work bench, then pulled a blaster from the rack above and walked back over to the pair.

"What was he doing there?" She pointed the pistol at the man and Ibayo, unsure of who to threaten. "Tell me!"

Ibayo frowned, but reluctantly knelt in front of the man and grabbed the sides of his head.

"Gamin Yar," she said.

"And he's... what? Republic navy?"

She shook her head. "That's not his uniform. He is a nobody. He was there to steal from the wealthy." Ibayo let go if his head and sighed, leaving Gamin reeling from the after-effects of having hs mind violated.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped, scrambling away from the two women.

Sunon was silent for a moment, then broke into an uproarious laugh that rang the bay walls.

"Is something about this _funny _to you?" Ibayo said. Sunon couldn't honestly say it _was _funny, but things had gone so wrong that she could think of no other response than to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"A bounty hunter couldn't find her target. You, a _Jedi, _couldn't save one woman from an assassin." She walked over to Gamin, who had backed himself against a crate. "You're a thief, right? Did you steal anything good?"

He was too taken aback by her mad grin to speak. All he could do was shake his head slowly from side to side.

"Great." Sunon turned and went back up the stairs, all the while tapping her blaster against her thigh. "Terrific."

Ibayo and Gamin remained in the cargo bay, unmoving and unspeaking as a few more halting laughs rang out from deeper in the ship. Then, those too went silent.


	5. A Trial Run

The bridge of the _Nemesis _was dead silent. Tralus Varad knelt near the front viewport, eyes closed to the orange planet hundreds of miles away. Once the flagship of the Mandalorian fleet had reached Horuz's orbit, Tralus had sent the crew out into the hall and then knelt down in the center of the room before the orange planet looming in full view.

Drop pods and landing craft rained down from the fleet that surrounded the planet, carrying thousands of hardened Mandalorian warriors. Once they had been outlaws, mercenaries, and thugs. Dozens of fractured clans, plying their violent trade on the edge of the galaxy. They had been leaderless when Tralus found them, but he had given them true purpose and united them under a single banner. Not the symbol of any one clan, and certainly not the green-leafed flag of Mandalore's fledgling 'democracy'. For this rebirth he had chosen a twelve-pointed yellow star, each tip representing one of the original clans of Mandalore, their ancestral home planet.

That purpose had not yet been fully revealed to most of the men under his command, not when so much blood and sweat had gone into a plan decades in the making. For now, they were still mercenaries—though their group had no name. For nearly a year Tralus had kept his forces split apart, pairing two or three clans together for each job. There was no shortage of work for them in the galaxy. A fractured Sith Empire, a teetering Republic, strange new species encroaching from uncharted space—so many threats, and no one to handle them.

No one, except for groups like theirs. The work had made them—and him—rich. All of those funds were funneled back into their growing army, turning a ragtag band of mercs into a true force to be reckoned with. This time, however, money was not their driving goal. They _were _being paid a paltry fee by the beleaguered Republic military governor of Atrivis to put down a civilian rebellion on Horuz, but Tralus was also earning a favor to be called in at a time of his choosing—a favor he would put to good use.

Tralus peeked his eyes open just enough to allow a sliver of Horuz to enter his vision. Explosions rocked the planet's surface ahead of the landing craft raining down from above. Each blast looked so small from where he knelt, but hundreds of miles below ground defenses were being turned to ash ahead of his ground forces. He wanted to be down there, among the stinging ash and sulfur fumes. Not up in space, with its sterile silence.

There was a reason he stayed so far from the battle, though. Down there, he couldn't focus.

He closed his eyes and reached out, once again establishing a mental connection with every soldier falling towards the planet's surface. His awareness spread outward, touching seven thousand minds until it was as if he were a single creature bearing down on the enemy. Battle meditation was a powerful tool in a Force user's repertoire. A skilled being could take a simpering coward and turn him into a fearless killing machine.

Not that his men needed that sort of help. Instead of doing something as crude as pushing on their mind to drive them into a murderous rage, his focused his power on the links between individuals. Every man and woman in his army was connected in seamless psychic communication, allowing for conditions on the ground to be known in real time. Every squad leader saw what his or her soldiers saw. Each battalion leader knew the status of every one of the squads under his command—and above it all sat Tralus, watching through closed eyes as the raging battle moved from the air to the surface. Horuz's capital city was in flames, and the Mandalorians swept from block to block faster than the defenders could deploy forces to counter the incursions. Soon the battle would end, and the smoldering planet would be just one more completed contract.

The door to the bridge opened. Tralus ignored it until he heard Crale's distinctive footsteps, a cadence he recognized not through any sort of enhanced awareness, but from all the years he had known his second-in-command. Crale stopped a good distance behind him, remaining quiet so that Tralus could maintain his mental connection with their forces on the ground. The grizzled veteran seemed to take a certain pride in dismissing Tralus' powers. No matter how many feats the latter performed, Crale would either dismiss them as magic tricks or slander them as foul sorcery. The first time Tralus had performed battle meditation had changed the man's mind. Any leader of men could see the immense value in what he was doing.

"Commander." came Crale's hoarse voice. The man had breathed in the aftermath of one too many chemical bombs, leaving him unable to speak above a croaking whisper.

Tralus winced as his connection to his army began to slip away, like a fish wriggling free of a net. He didnt bother trying to re-establish his awareness among his men. The battle was as good as won, anyway.

"What is it?" He had intended to project some anger at his lieutenant, but the ordeal of battle meditation left him too exhausted to bother.

"Got a call in the comm the room—your _assassin." _The title dripped with disdain.

Tralus' head snapped back to look at the bald, bearded man. "Did he succeed?"

"Yeah, but he's not happy."

Tralus already knew why. He rose to his feet, smoothing out his black military coat before making his way out of the bridge and to the secure communications room down the hall. The projector at the other end of the circular room was already active, and a single press of a button re-activated the link Crale had established. A figure flickered to life above the projector, a masked man in a black tunic. Tralus could feel his anger, even through the red-eyed mask and light years of distance that separated them.

"I'm told you were successful."

The assassin took a sharp breath in through his ventilator. "_Why _was my prize waiting for me at my target's home?"

Tralus hadn't been aware of that little detail. He knew that his men had failed to capture the hermit on Darvannis, a woman he had fully intended to hand over to the assassin on completion of his mission. But somehow, someone else had gotten to her first.

"She was at the embassy?"

"Yes!" the man shouted. "With a pure-blooded Sith woman!" His mask deepened his voice, but Tralus could sense the residual panic behind it. "The authorities think _they _killed the ambassador."

Tralus looked away from the hologram and rubbed a hand across his jaw. His subordinate's failure to capture Ibayo may have worked out in his favor. The assassin was supposed to have left no witnesses—only evidence of a Sith assassin's handiwork. Instead, he had inadvertently framed an _actual Sith _for Nara Jendri's murder.

"I told you to leave no witnesses," Tralus said coolly.

The man scoffed and jabbed a finger at the Mandalorian. "And I expected my prize _after _the job, not _during _it!"

Tralus had deliberately provoked the outburst, and just as intentionally pulled back from the hologram, as if withering before the display of anger.

"I was not trying to renege on our deal," he assured him. "There was a reason I hired you, after all. The Republic watches my every move. Any attempts to communicate with you on Taris risked interception." He embellished the danger a bit, but the basis behind his words was true, and the assassin knew that. Tralus had gone to great lengths to hide the growing strength of his forces, but Republic intelligence was beginning to cast a wary eye on the Mandalorian army scouring planets in its outer territories.

"I am a man of my word." Tralus stood proudly and confidently. "I take it from your description of events that the Sith and hermit escaped Taris?"

"Yes."

"Then they are no longer treading where I cannot. I will help you find them."

"You?" He sounded as if he had just heard a bad joke. The man knew that Tralus was a superb commander, but that was _all _he knew about them. Tralus preferred to keep it that way.

"My finest men," Tralus corrected himself. That part wasn't a lie. There was only one truly reliable way to frame someone for a crime—you had to kill them afterwards. For his entire plan to not fall apart, the truth could never come out. Tralus used the wall intercom to summon Crale, who arrived a few moments later. He frowned at the sight of the assassin's hologram, an expression that deepened into a scowl the longer Tralus spoke to the two men.

Neither one was fond of the idea of working with the other, to put it lightly. But Tralus had built an army out of warring clans whose blood feuds went back centuries. Crale would object, but ultimately he would obey. Especially once Tralus told him what to do with the assassin after their targets were located.

No loose ends, he told himself. Never again.

* * *

Gamin held his head in his hands and thumped his feet against the crate he sat on. It was the only noise in the cargo bay, but he could still sense the looming presence of the veiled women before him. She wasn't the first Miraluka he had met, nor the first Jedi. At least he _assumed _she was a Jedi. Only the use of the Force could explain how she had read his mind.

"What?" he looked up to see that she was even closer to him than she had been a few moments ago.

"I'm trying to figure out why someone who can use the Force engages in petty thievery."

He sighed and dropped his head again. "Shouldn't you know? You read my mind, after all."

"I only took what I needed." That was cold comfort after just having his thoughts dug around in.

"Yeah, well so do I." Usually no one got hurt, except himself. Not like this time. "And I don't want a lecture on morality. Not from two Sith." He couldn't look at the woman without wondering just how much she knew about him. The gaze of a Jedi was like a spotlight, and the eyeless Miraluka were said to be able to see into a man's soul.

"That woman is not a Sith," said Ibayo. "Not in the way you think."

He eyed her doubtfully. "What's that supposed to mean?" He knew what Sith looked like—any person old enough to open a book did.

"I don't sense a hint of Force sensitivity within her."

He didnt know that was even possible, but it explained why she had fought the assassin with punches and kicks instead of the awe-inspiring powers expected of the pureblood Sith.

"Not like you," she continued. "Your abilities are obvious." The way she said it made it clear she wasn't complimenting him. He grimaced at the implicit mention of his attempt to persuade the Sith with the Force. It wasn't something he liked to do, in no small part because of how unreliable it was for him. When it didnt work, people tended to get pissed.

"I panicked," he sighed. "That's not something I would normally do."

"I don't mean your clumsy attempt to push on her mind." She pointed a finger at him and swiveled it around, as if tracing his outline through the air. "You leak power like a sieve."

His heart skipped a beat. "Because I'm so powerful?" he said hesitantly.

"No." The word was like a storm cloud forming over his brief ray of hope. "Because you are so poorly trained. An experienced Force user knows to hide their strength until it is needed."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and slid off of the crate, then went to leave the cargo bay. The conversation had gone, like so many others, exactly as he expected. From here she would inevitably launch into a speech about the lure of quick power and the dangers of the Dark Side. He was foolish to think this Miralukan would be any different from the other Jedi he had encountered.

* * *

Sunon stood in front of the bathroom mirror, electric razor in hand. She tended to avoid catching her own eye in one, and this was the first time in months she had taken a good, long look at herself. Heavy bags hung under her eyes, adding a bit of purple to her seamless red skin. Her eyebrows and jaw were drawn tight by a palpable tension that worked its way into every corner of her body. She could see the little muscles in her face twitching, as if to vent stress that had built to dangerous levels.

She lifted up the back of her hair and switched the razor on, then brought it across the side of her head, shaving down to her scalp. Now that she was likely wanted for the murder of a prominent politician, a disguise was more necessary than ever. With one side of her head now hairless she turned to the other, careful to avoid the hair atop her head drawn down into a long braid. She couldn't bring herself to shave everything.

Nearly a decade ago, she had shot up a foot in height in a year, and Ayahe had made an off-handed joke about her growing into a handsome young man. Being that Sunon was in the throes of early puberty, such a comment struck deep. Now, it didn't bother her at all. Not simply because she was older and more mature, but because even the bad times of her past life had taken on the rosey tint of nostalgia. A life she was trying to regain, but which seemed to slip further away each time she grasped for it.

With the sides and back of her head shaved clean, she toweled off and let her braid drop. Combined with her usual fake horns and facial markings, she would look nothing like the robed Sith who had entered the Mandalorian embassy on Taris. That was a start, but it was not a solution. She did not intend to spend the rest of her life running from a crime she hadn't committed. Neither would she let this distract her from her original goal. Tralus was connected to the ambassador's murder—there was simply no other explanation. When she found him, she would pull the identity of his assassin from him before she ended his life. Already she was dreaming up ways to accomplish that, all of which had her heavy heart pounding strongly again.

Working her way from the top level of the ship to the bottom, she passed through the corridor running down the central floor. A door was open—one which should not have been. Sunon hadn't bothered to lock the armory when she had left the ship on Taris, since she hadn't expected to play host to two strangers. She peeked around the corner and saw Gamin standing at the center of the room amidst racks of blasters and all manner of devices both defensive and offensive. He wasn't looking at those, though. His attention was firmly focused on the set of armor Sunon had taken from Maliss. Her hand moved away from her blaster when she saw that he wasn't rummaging around for weapons—or doing anything at all, really. After a few moments more he raised a hand and tapped on the T-shaped glass of the helmeted visor. She gasped and rushed over, shoving past him to wipe at the glass with her sleeve.

"Didnt I tell you to stay in the cargo bay?" she said. Having one stranter onboard her ship was jarring enough. Two of them, moving things out of place and getting finger prints everywhere, was downright intolerable.

"Who'd you kill for this?" The question was half-joking, half-serious, but the sight of Sunon closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the helmet's made him realize he had overstepped some unseen line.

"I didnt _steal _it—it belongs to me."

"But... you're a Sith." She knew what he meant by the seemingly inane statement. A non-Force sensitive Sith was such an aberration that the proper language to refer to one hardly existed.

"Is it that obvious?"

"That's Mandalorian armor." Many people could tell simply from the distinctive visored helmet, but the clan Vizla insignia on the left shoulder left little doubt—A long, cracked animal skull with two tusks. A Sith who could not call on the Force was strange, but one who wore the armor of a Mandalorian was stranger still.

"It was my mother's. Now, it's mine."

"You're a Mandalorian?"

She shot him a fierce glare. "I am _not _a Mandalorian."

Gamin was taken aback by the fierce denial to a question he had expected a simple grunted 'yes' as an answer to.

"So you're a Sith who's not a Sith, and a bounty hunter with a set of Mandalorian armor who isn't a Mandalorian." He leaned to the side so that she could see him smiling from the edge of her vision.

"Yes. You've figured it all out."

"And that Jedi downstairs... she's your partner?" He followed her out of the room, moving with an upbeat energy she found obnoxious. She almost preferred the terrified man she had punched in the gut an hour ago.

"No, she was my prisoner."

"Am I your prisoner now?" He moved in front of her and leaned against the wall, blocking the corridor. She was tempted to let him know just how close to the truth his joke came.

"We're not friends. Don't act like it." She shoved him against the wall and continued by him to the stairs leading to the cargo bay.

"I'm not trying to be _friends, _I'm trying to be _friendly. _There's a difference."

When she didnt respond, he grew frustrated and moved in front of her again. "You could at least tell me where we're going. Considering you ruined my life, I think you owe me that much."

"I ruined your life?" Instead of pushing him to the side, she gave him a hard shove, making him stagger backwards. "You're a thief, and a coward. That assassin would have _killed _you if I wasn't there." He opened his mouth as if to respond, but quickly closed it again. She was right, and he knew it.

"You're lucky I didnt leave you on Taris. And you're lucky I don't just shove you out the airlock now." She pushed him again, and he tripped over the edge of the cargo bay doorway, falling back onto the railing of the balcony running around the room. Sunon stepped in after him and leaned in close, drawing her eyebrows down and baring her teeth at him.

"So don't talk to me about ruined lives," she snarled. Despite her show of force, he wasn't afraid. If anything, he looked just as angry as her.

"Am I interrupting?" came a voice next to her.

Sunon leapt to the side, nearly knocking Gamin to the ground as she staggered away from Ibayo. The woman stood there calmly, seemingly unconcerned with how close Sunon's hand lay to the blaster at her waist. The Sith came close to ripping into the hermit for getting the drop on her again, but decided that felt too much like losing some unspoken competition.

"Great timing." Sunon stood tall and worked out the tension in her neck. "I was just about to tell him that I'm kicking you two off soon."

"Oh?" Ibayo didnt seem very surprised at the news that she would no longer be a prisoner.

"On Bandomeer," Sunon said. "We'll be there in less than a day."

In contrast to the stoic hermit, Gamin turned white, suddenly showing all the fear the Sith had tried in vain to instill in him.

"Bandomeer? That's only half a parsec from Taris! We haven't even left the sector!"

"The hyperdrive's shot," Sunon explained. "This ship isn't entering Hyperspace again anytime soon." When she had jumped from Taris, Sunon had chosen the shortest viable hyperspace route to put the least amount of strain on the drive, but even that had been too much for it when they were jumping within Taris' gravity well. It beat being shot to pieces by the patrol they had narrowly escaped, but it also meant they weren't making another jump until the drive was repaired—repairs she didn't have the equipment _or _know-how to perform.

He swallowed and pushed himself up from the railing he had been clinging to. "And after that?"

"After what?"

"Where do we go?" he exclaimed.

Sunon shrugged. "You'll be off my ship. I don't care what you do after that."

Gamin looked to Ibayo in desperation, but the Jedi had no help for him. "I am fine with that."

"Well, I'm not!" He looked between the two women wildly. "I'm not fine with being wanted for murder!"

"I was already a wanted woman," said Ibayo. "This changes little for me."

Considering the conversation over, Sunon turned and headed back towards the cockpit at the other end of the ship. Ibayo made no move to follow, but Gamin was on the Sith's heels immediately.

"What about you? You're fine with this?"

"I didnt say I was. I'm going to find the assassin's employer."

"Well, ok!" Gamin stopped darting around and followed her at a calmer pace. He didnt know if she had any sort of plan, but the cool confidence with which she stated her intent was infectious. "Where do we start?"

"We?" She stopped and glanced back at him. "How could you possibly help me?"

He stopped as well, and the Sith waited only for a moment before continuing up the stairwell. Even after her footfalls grew silent, he still had yet to think of an answer.

* * *

Coruscant's daytime skyline was a true sight to behold. As soon as the sun crested the horizon it lit up the endless skyscrapers of Galactic City from end to end, a hundred gleaming silver spires no matter which way you looked. From there the sun grew higher and brighter, pushing aside clouds in its passage across the blue sky until it left for the other end of the planet as a softly burning sphere of orange.

Night, however, was the real show. A few hours after the sun left, the moon arrived from the other end, a massive orb of silver that loomed close and heavy. Some nights, Ayahe swore she could feel the tug of it, like the pull it would have exerted on Coruscant's oceans, if the planet had any left. Every night before leaving the ArcaWorks offices, she would look out her window. Not at the buildings that had grown dark, nor the Senate District that lay so close with its corridors of political power. Her sister would not be down there.

No, she looked higher, to the moon and the stars. There, she hoped her Sunon had managed to find some measure of solace. Ayahe had long asked herself why she had fled. It was a question that began as a niggling thought when she awoke in the morning, and built up into a roaring din that drowned out all other thought. When it became too loud to bear, she would leave work and go home to her apartment, then force herself to sleep.

On that night, sleep seemed even more unattainable a prospect than ever, and she found herself standing at the windowed wall of her research office, looking up at the stars faintly visible past the bright moon of Coruscant. Those twinkling lights had no answers for her—only new worries and intrusive thoughts. She cast her eyes down, at the darkened city. Just like her constant work, it seemed to swallow her up, worries and all. It wasn't comforting, but it was at least numbing.

As her eyes travelled down the tall spires digging deep into the depths of the city's endless tiers, her gaze shot back upward. There was a holographic news billboard, with a still image of a robed Sith ranting on the footsteps of some stone building. Sunon smiled, musing at how her wandering mind had been taken in by the sight of the man's face. Before she had seen the rest, he'd been the spitting image of her sister.

She was about to turn away from the window and head home, but then the billboard changed images, showing a close-up of the Sith's face. Even from blocks away, Ayahe could make out the Sith's eyes. They were green—an exceedingly rare color for their species. Her heart froze, then started again, pounding madly as she raced over to her desk. Her hands were shaking terribly, and it was all she could manage to bring up the first Holonet news stream she could find. The same image of Sunon's face was displayed above a human woman seated at a news anchor's desk.

"...Minutes after delivering a fiery tirade of anti-Republic and anti-Twi'lek rhetoric on the steps of the embassy, a Sith woman who identified herself as _'Sunon Vathamma' _murdered the Mandalorian ambassador, as well as seriously wounding several guards and guests."

The image of Sunon changed to footage of the embassy's exterior. A hole had been blown in the second floor, and the entire front of the building was riddled with blaster marks.

"The suspect and her two accomplices escaped Tarisian efforts to apprehend them, but Republic authorities are now working closely with the Mandalorian foreign service to—"

Ayahe didnt listen to the rest. Nor did she bother switching off her computer, or even closing the door to her office as she sprinted down the hall to the building's elevator.


	6. When The Light Goes Out

When Sunon entered Bandomeer's system, she didnt receive the standard automated landing instructions that would normally be broadcast from an inhabited planet. Nor were there ships in orbit waiting to land—just a few patrols and some mining vessels in the asteroid field ringing the planet. She switched on one of the fake transponders she had equipped to the Mantis, and hailed every open frequency in an effort to reach the planet.

"Bandomeer, this is FVA213. Requesting landing guidance."

For a few moments the crackle of static was the only response, but then a voice spoke up.

"Negative, FVA213. Bandor is under martial law, by authority of Czerka Mining Subsidiary."

Czerka was a galaxy-spanning corporation, older and more powerful than even some empires. Profiteers like them had fared the destruction of the Eternal Empire better than most, picking up the scantily-populated and resource rich worlds that the Republic and Sith felt were too distant to add to their fragile domains.

In many parts of the galaxy, companies like Czerka _were _the government. They might have had shareholders instead of citizens, and executives instead of ministers, but once you stripped away the corporate sheen they were just like any other opportunistic warlord who saw a power vacuum and filled it.

"We are a humanitarian mission from Corellia, Bandomeer. We have perishable supplies that need to be delivered immediately." The transponder she had switched on would have partially confirmed her story, but the man responded so quickly that Sunon knew he hadn't even bothered to check.

"Repeat, that's a negative FVA213. Czerka Mining vessels only."

The call ended, and Sunon didnt bother to try and reestablish it. She could have told them that their hyperdrive was damaged and that they needed repairs, but that risked inviting too many unwanted questions—namely, _how _it got damaged. Word will have already gone out about a blockade runner narrowly escaping nearby Taris, and if Czerka authorities got an eyes-on look at her ship, they would quickly realize it wasn't the civilian vessel her transponder marked it as.

The second option was to wait in orbit for a freighter she could pay to haul her out of system. She could hide from Czerka in the planet's asteroid field—they would never find her with the Mantis' small radar signature and the pitiful patrols combing the massive cloud of rocks. She wouldn't have to wait long, either. Bandomeer sat at the crossroads of the Hydian Way and Braxant Run. The former hyperspace lane led from Republic space into Empire territory, while the latter served as the main trade route for both into independent space.

But therein lay another problem. Assuming she managed to pay a captain to haul the Mantis to another system, she would inevitably come face-to-face with him and the crew. A crew that, given enough time, might figure out who she and her shipmates were. If that happened, she would be stuck on a hostile vessel with no way off.

It didnt take her long to settle on plan C. She spent twenty minutes shuttling the Mantis away from Bandomeer, as if getting far enough from the planet to safely jump out of the system. Once out of range of their sensors she entered the asteroid field, tracing the outer edge of the ring of dust and rock encircling the planet. The ring was low enough in orbit that she could descend most of the way towards Bandor's outskirts without alerting anyone to her presence—and if they did, there was always plan D.

The debris cloud grew denser and heavier, and the fine dust that had pelted the hull coalesced into chunks of rock the size of astromech droids. She couldn't do much to avoid them, or the hell they were putting the ship's force field through—she was too busy carefully navigating the rocks bigger than her ship. A head-on collision with one of those, and it was all over.

A metal _thunk _came from behind her, followed by a softer one. At first she chalked it up to one more minor collision, but then she heard Gamin's voice through the cockpit door.

"Are we getting shot at?" He banged on the door frantically. She debated switching on the autopilot and getting up to go deal with him, but she couldn't do that for the same reason she couldn't keep him locked out. Navigating the asteroid field required expert piloting, and most of all _focused _piloting.

She pressed a button on the console, opening the door. Gamin rushed in and crashed into Sunon, nearly throwing her out of her chair. She regained control just in time to avoid losing one of the wingside jump jets to a slowly-spinning asteroid.

"Shut up. Shut up," she hissed. "Sit down, and shut up."

Gamin eased himself off of her and took a seat in the co-pilot's chair. He kept quiet, but every _thunk _of rock against hull had him wincing and throwing a worried glance over at Sunon. By the time they neared the field's edge and Bandomeer's shimmering white upper atmosphere, she was ready to leap out of her chair and strangle him, consequences be damned.

"That was fine piloting," said Ibayo. Sunon jerked in surprise, nearly careening off into the last asteroid within view before she once again directed them back on course.

"Back!" shouted Sunon. The Jedi stepped away from her chair, and Sunon continued to glare at her until Ibayo had moved back into the hallway. Once clear of the asteroids, Sunon brought them on a steep descent that forced Gamin to buckle in and for Ibayo to hold onto the wall railing lest she be thrown straight into the cockpit. The ship groaned and shook from the intense speed and angle of their descent, stressing plating that was already bruised and battered from asteroid impacts.

The city of Bandor came within view, a city of beige and brown in endless grey flatland pockmarked by vast strip mines. They weren't landing at the starport, though. That would be locked down tight. Sunon pointed the ship at a hilly plateau overlooking the city outskirts, and began a more gradual approach as she prepared to land.

They were no longer being torn apart by air resistance, but the Mantis was buffeted by powerful winds that hit from both left and right, threatening to throw her off course. Each gust was accompanied by waves of dust sweeping across the terrain, shielding their ship from view until she set them down safely in a shallow, windless valley cutting through the plateau.

Sunon shooed her nerve-wracked co-pilot from the cockpit and locked it, then made her way to the armory. Blending in was priority number two—priority one was being able to fight if blending in failed. With that in mind she donned her armor, skipping only the helmet and throwing a ratty cloak that covered her from head to toe. Being an alien aside, she would look right at home in the sand-blasted slums of Bandor. With that done she went to the cargo bay, then walked down the lowered ramp onto Bandomeer's surface with Ibayo and Gamin in tow. The area she had set down in was shielded from the wind, but she could hear it all around them as a high-pitched howl.

Bandomeer's star was too far to call a sun—no more than a faint white disc hardly any larger than the other stars dotting the sky. It bathed the landscape in a weak, colorless light, giving the gray expanse the eerie look of an empty room with the lights half dimmed.

"We couldn't use a starport?" Gamin shouted over the wind.

"Planet's under martial law," she said. "Why do you think I snuck through an asteroid field?"

She could tell by the look on his face that he hadn't thought to ask.

"How are we supposed to get off-planet?"

"Not my problem." She trudged up a rocky dune, then down a slope towards the edge of the plateau. As she searched for a viable route down from the sheer drop ahead, Gamin scrambled in front of her.

"You're not stranding me in this shithole." He reached out to stop the Sith before she could barrel straight through him. As soon as his fingertips touched her shoulder, she grabbed him by the front of his jacket, pointed a blaster at his face, and marched him to the edge of the plateau. A few rocks rolled down the steep slope just behind his heels, and one look down had the blood rushing from his face and jaw clenching tight. He nearly grabbed onto the Sith's arm for support, but he quickly reminded himself of where one tap on her shoulder had gotten him.

"Don't touch me," she said. "Never touch me."

Unlike the last time she had manhandled him, he couldn't help but allow fear to crack his thin mask of stoicism. Not because of the sheer drop below him or the blaster barrel a quarter foot from his nose—though those didnt help. What scared him was the wild, senseless look in the Sith's eyes. To her, in that moment, he was the only one in the world, and somehow he had earned her rage.

Before Sunon could make another move, her blaster was ripped from her grip. Muscles moving faster than her mind, Sunon drew her other blaster, spun towards where her gun had been pulled, threw Gamin into the dirt beside her, and fired.

The gun hovering in the air in front of Ibayo clattered to the ground. A few seconds later she slumped to her knees, taking a gasping breath in as the blaster wound in the center of her chest sent up faint wisps of smoke that were quickly dispersed by the roaring winds.

Sunon didn't know why she had shot the Jedi. She wasn't sure she had even really meant to, or if nerves and instinct had come together in a perfect storm that allowed the worst to happen. Maybe she had just wanted to shoot someone, and in the absence of an enemy who continued to elude her, frustration and hate had built up until an opportunity presented an outlet for those dark emotions.

Gamin scrambled to his feet and rushed over as Ibayo fell onto her back, then slid onto his shins and hovered his hands over her wound. He may have been saying something, but Sunon couldn't hear. Not with the wind, and not with the ringing growing ever louder in her ears. Her pistol slipped from her grip and she walked over to the fallen Jedi, moving at an almost casual pace. Nothing felt real, and when Gamin looked up at her in rage and anguish she couldn't understand why that grief was directed at her.

"Do something!" he shouted, his words finally reaching her in the deep corner of her own mind she had retreated to.

The Jedi was still breathing, though the frantic heaving of her chest was the only movement she made. Sunon took a few halting steps back, turned, then broke into a run towards her ship, triggering the ramp to lower as she ran. She raced through the cargo hold, up the stairwell, then grabbed a medkit from the medical bay. By the time she was back at Ibayo's side she was herself again, and able to use the cauterizing needle with steady hands.

"Go to the cargo bay," she said to Gamin. "Get the hoversled from the left wall."

While he went to do that, Sunon slipped her fingertips under Ibayo's cowl and felt for a pulse on her neck. It was weak, but it was there. Next she gently felt the site of the blaster wound for signs of what damage the woman had sustained. Below her skin she felt bits of hard bone, a rib that had shattered and likely punctured one of her lungs. Sunon took an empty syringe from the medkit, slipped it between Ibayo's intact ribs, and pulled up on the plunger. The Jedi's shallow wheezing becake full-throated gasps as she regained use of both lungs. That would help, but it wouldn't last long.

It also didnt do anything for the internal bleeding she was certainly suffering. The Mantis' autodoc was useful, but it wasn't capable of complex surgery—neither was Sunon. They needed a real doctor.

"Here!" Gamin slid to a stop with the hovering cargo sled in front of him. Sunon pushed her hands under Ibayo, and lifted her up. Then, she stopped.

The wounded Jedi didnt make a sound. Nor did her muscles have any of the rigidity expected of someone still clinging to life, however weakly. Her head lolled from side to side with every movement Sunon made, and the Sith knew that she was no longer holding a living person. She lowered her back down to the ground, and again felt for a pulse.

Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Nothing.

Sunon looked up at Gamin and shook her head, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were fixed firmly on the fallen Jedi, his mouth hung open in a mask of horrified anguish. This was the second person he had seen dead in as many days, but Sunon hadn't seem him make that kind of expression when she had pulled him out from under Nara Jendri's corpse. Maybe, for him, it didn't get easier each time. Maybe he wasn't like her.

The last of Sunon's fingertips was about to leave Ibayo's neck when she felt it. Clear and unmistakable—the _thump _of her heart, so strong that the Sith swore she could hear it in her own head. She didnt bother to wait for a second. She lifted the limp woman up and loaded her onto the flat sled, then strapped her in tight like so much precious cargo. From there she took off running, racing along the edge of the plateau as she sought a path down.

Sunon had read about the abilities of both Jedi and Sith. With her parentage, how could she not? She had been _told _even more stories. Years ago, after a long day of hunting on Tinnel IV, Sunon had come home to find Maliss asleep on the sofa, bottle of alcohol in front of her. At first she had assumed the Mandalorian was blackout drunk like usual. Then, she had noticed that her chest wasn't moving. Sunon had held her ear over Maliss' open mouth, checked for a pulse, shaken her and shouted desperately—to no avail. Convinced she was dead, Sunon had sprinted out of the house in the direction of the nearest town, screaming as she ran. Maliss came out shortly after, struggling to run as she let out roaring laughter that drowned out Sunon's panicked cries.

The next day, she had told Sunon what she had done. Force users could enter a meditative state where they slowed their vital functions, reducing the need for air, food, and water. Even non-Force users could achieve a similar state, though not to the same degree. One could endure starvation conditions or minimal oxygen—or terrify children. The drawback was that it left the user near-comatose, and completely vulnerable.

There was no man made path down from the plateau, but the drop of the plateau's edge had become gradual enough that reaching the bottom intact was possible. Sunon tipped the sled over and began their haphazard descent, skating along dirt and gravel with her boots while the hoversled picked up tremendous speed.

The steel skyscrapers of Bandor loomed ever higher the further she fell, and the scrap metal shantytown surrounding the city grew closer. After a heart-stopping final drop-off from a rock ledge, Sunon crashed onto flat ground, falling behind the sled that continued forward with residual speed. Her cloak was torn off by a jagged rock that nearly cut her open as well, but she didn't go back to grab it. She rolled back to her feet and began running again, catching a glimpse of Gamin working his way down the slope behind her.

She could have simply carried Ibayo aboard the Mantis and flown them into the city, but there they would have faced all of the dangers that had forced her to land in the wilderness in the first place. Seeing an unauthorized ship flying over a city under martial law, Czerka might decide to simply blow them out of the sky. If that didn't happen, and they were instead given permission to land, Ibayo could well have died by the time they convinced some paper-pusher to authorize her medical treatment.

There weren't a lot of good options, so Sunon had taken the least ugly. She prayed it was the right one.

Sunon came into the city's ramshackle slums, working through narrow streets and narrower alleys as she sought someone in the deserted, dusty hovels. For a time, she saw no one. It had clearly never been a nice neighborhood, but the slum looked to have hosted some recent battle. Blaster marks scorched stone walls, kicked-in doors had been patched up with metal panelling, and roads were pockmarked with blast holes that made keeping the sled stable a constant struggle.

Eventually, she did find someone. A Meerian, the near-human inhabitants of Bandomeer. He was short, no more than five feet tall. His skin and hair were as pale as the distant sun shining down on them, and he wore the greasy smock of a mechanic. Though his head didnt even reach Sunon's neck, he had a certain diminutive sturdiness to him. With a flat nose, broad skull, and wide shoulders, the Meerian looked every bit the sort of species that could thrive on such a harsh and unforgiving world.

"Doctor!" Sunon shouted. "Hospital!"

She had no idea if he spoke Basic, but her urgent tone and the unconscious woman she was pushing were clue enough. He spoke some unintelligible grunts and pointed off to a nearby intersection, and the street running away from it. Sunon took off running, and had to ask three more natives for directions before she found one who could truly converse with her.

"Come!" said a Meerian woman in a striped head-covering. She was even shorter than the men Sunon had seen, and the Sith had to slow her run to allow the woman to lead her. Most of the buildings making up the city outskirts were made of junk and scrap, salvaged from whatever Czerka had cast off in their wake. But mixed in with those teetering multi-level shacks were older structures that betrayed Bandomeer's ancient past, before it had become one more Republic mining colony.

The woman led them into one such structure, a long, flat-roofed building of gray rock that looked to have grown out of the very ground they stood on. They were met inside by an older Meerian, and he chattered away with the woman who had led them there.

It was hard to tell just _where_ exactly she had led her. The interior had the close walls and cluttered interior of a home, but there were none of the usual trappings of a family's living quarters. Instead, the hard mud walls were covered in racks of herbs and vials that gave off a powerful scent that had Sunon's head reeling. The man gave Sunon a quick look over, but his curious expression turned terrified when he saw the Mandalorian insignia on her shoulder. What it meant to him she could only guess, but ultimately he overcame his fear and took control of the hoversled from her.

"I take," he said to Sunon. "I take." He held one hand up reassuringly, and Sunon let the handlebar slip from her grip, then watched as the man pulled the cart through a beaded curtain that fluttered shut after he had passed through. Something knocked Sunon hard in the back, and Gamin rushed past her down the narrow hall to the room the doctor—or whatever he was—had disappeared to.

Maybe he should have stayed, watched the doctor, made sure he knew what the hell he was doing—but she couldn't. Sunon burst out of the building back onto the street, but even without the close walls pressing down on her she still felt hemmed in. The buildings were too near, the sun too far, and the blowing dust which had only been a nuisance before was sparking a terrible itch wherever it touched. She scratched at her neck and face as she walked, trying to seek some space open enough that she would have room to breathe, but all she found was more endless sprawl.

"Hey!" shouted Gamin.

She thought she had wandered far enough that he wouldn't be able to find her. Either he had been following silently for some time, or had been bold enough to ask the locals where she had gone. When she didn't turn to look at him, nor slow her walk, he jogged closer to her.

"You're just going to leave her there?" he said.

That had always been the plan. Wounding her, nearly killing her—_that_ had been a mistake she still struggled to wrap her head around. Ibayo was not her concern, and Sunon had done all she could. Whether she lived or died was up to the Jedi's own strength, the doctor's skill, and sheer, dumb luck. Sunon wasn't sure she _wanted _to know how that turned out. If Ibayo died, it would force the Sith to confront a question that had festered in her mind, growing with each new moral compromise she made.

Over the last two years, Sunon had killed more than a few people. At first, she only did so when she was absolutely sure that their deaths wouldn't weigh heavy on her conscience. Then, it got easier for her, and she started looking for justification only _after _the deed was done, in order to assuage her conscience. So far she'd gotten lucky, and always found something that allowed her to convince herself she'd rid the galaxy of one more scumbag.

That wouldn't work this time. If Ibayo died, Sunon would have killed her for one reason, and one reason only—because she had been angry.

"Am I the bad guy?" she wondered aloud.

"Huh?" Gamin stopped following for a moment, then started again, walking faster to catch up.

"I thought I was the hero." She looked up at the black sky and its single dim star. A day ago, her ultimate goal had seemed just as far. Now, she couldn't even see it as a distant possibility. Things had seemed so simple for so long. Maliss was dead, Tralus had killed her, and Sunon would kill him. Every bad deed she had done was in pursuit of justice, and that fact absolved her of any sin. She didn't have to think about the consequences of her actions—until now.

Sunon was too wrapped up in her thoughts, and Gamin too busy trying to figure out what she was thinking, for either one of them to notice the change in the slums around them. Most of the town's inhabitants more innocuous-looking inhabitants had vanished, and the pair was being trailed by a group of ragged-clothed Meerians that grew closer as their numbers swelled. They clambered over rooftops and huddled in alleyways, watching the armored woman with wary hatred.

As Sunon passed a narrow side street, a figure shot out of the darkness. At first she took it for some junkyard hound or overgrown rodent, but then she saw the eyes of a humanoid swaddled in a brown face covering. Thinking that the Meerian was simply panicked by her presence she stepped back for him to pass, and was too late to react when she finally saw the small electrostaff in his hands. It surged with blue electricity as he thrust it into her plated chest, sending current coursing through her body.

Her armor's insulation absorbed much of it, but the jolt was more than enough to send her crashing to the ground with grinding teeth and spasming arms. She kicked a leg out at the Meerian, but he had seen that coming and moved quickly out of reach, standing at the ready for the moment she gave him another opening.

"You little freak!" Gamin raised his fists and rushed at her attacker. The Meerian scampered back into the alleyway he had ambushed them from, but was soon replaced by dozens more on the rooftops and balconies encircling the space. Every low wall and doorway seemed to have hidden one of the stout natives.

As he considered their overwhelming numbers and his lack of a weapon, his eyes fell upon Sunon's twitching legs, and the small blaster holstered at her ankle. He dove for it, taking it in hand and pointing it at a group of Meerians on a nearby rooftop.

If Sunon were able to speak, she would have told him that the grip was biometrically locked. Instead, she continued to thrash on the ground while Gamin earned a fraction of the shock that had fried her own nerves.

"Fuck!" he winced and dropped the pistol to the dirt, but the sight of a gun in his hand had been enough to shatter the Meerians' trigger discipline. The group across from him fired, blaster bolts shooting from every nook and cranny right at the hapless man who could only squeeze his eyes shut and hold his hands out in a vain attempt to stop the inevitable. The street filled with the squeal of laser fire, and the light became so bright that even those firing could no longer see what they were shooting at.

The shooting stopped, but the light remained. A glowing ball of white energy hovered where Gamin and Sunon had once been. Then, it exploded. Hot plasma spread outward, scorching walls and burning shack walls to a smoldering crisp. At the center of it all was Gamin, still kneeling as he looked around in awe at what he had done.

"Did you see that?" he shouted. He leapt to his feet, dancing around and laughing so madly that he grew red in the face. "I did it! I really did it!"

The Meerians began to emerge from cover, but Gamin was too emboldened to let the sight of their rifles cow him.

"You want another taste?" He held his arms out, as if inviting destruction upon himself so that he could deliver it back tenfold. Unfortunately, the bravado he directed at the cowering attackers on the rooftop meant that his back was turned to the electrostaff-equipped Meerian who darted back out of the alleyway he had fled into a short time ago. One quick jab to the back of the thigh and Gamin was rolling on the ground, howling in pain.

"Muhnato!" came a shout from one of their attackers. Sunon summoned just enough strength to prop herself up on her elbows, and saw one of the natives holding up a clenched fist, signalling for all those under his command to hold. He was older than the others, and stooped shorter than them with age—though he had little problem clambering down from his perch to approach the subdued pair with the rest of his heavily-armed group. As he drew near, he took a datapad from his belt and held it in front of her.

Displayed on the screen was a still image of Sunon ranting on the steps of the Mandalorian embassy on Taris. It was a news report, detailing her supposed assassination of the Mandalorian ambassador. She had already assumed the worst, but now her fears were confirmed. She was a wanted murderer.

"This you?" he asked.

She briefly wondered just _how_ the Meerian had identified her, but then she noticed her reflection in the datapad's dim screen. Her fake facial markings were gone—the shock from the electrostaff must have shorted out the discs on her chest. A Sith in Republic space was rare—a Sith wandering around the backstreets of a mining settlement was unheard of. There was no use lying. She nodded, then waited for whatever came next—most likely a stunstick to the neck, and a quick handoff to Czerka authorities.

Instead, the Meerians broke out into a cheer that filled the plaza. At first she thought that they were celebrating her capture, but then a few of the men helped her to her feet. The diminutive people were stronger than they looked, and able to support both her and Gamin as they wobbled back and forth from the after-effects of the electrostaff.

"We talk," their leader said. He waved them forward, and both Sunon and her human companion were carried along by a tide of people. To what and where, she had no idea.

* * *

Markus Tamm hovered his foot over one of the thousands of footprints dotting the grassy embassy lawn. Somewhere in that stampede had been Nara Jendri's murderer, a Sith with a name and face no one knew. Finding her path in the mix of the panicked guests who had fled was just as hard as picking up her trail. Right now, it seemed impossible. Not without a lucky break.

The Mandalorians were no help, either. Officially they were conducting the investigation in cooperation with Republic authorities, but in reality they had swept in and shut down the crime scene hours before Markus had even arrived. Leading them was Nara's younger brother, and heir to the Jendri clan—Koras Jendri. It was hard to say how old he was—courtly politics tended to make one grow up fast—but he couldn't have been older than fourteen. Markus didnt handle kids well at the best of times, and Koras behaved with all the niceties and decorum expected of a teenager who had just had their sister murdered in cold blood.

He understood it, but it didnt make his job any easier—and he _liked _his job. It wasn't something he openly admitted to, but Markus was one of the lucky few who got some degree of deep-down satisfaction from their work. To everyone else, though, he was the grizzled veteran who counted down the days until retirement. It was a character he liked playing, and people seemed to find it disarming. No one likes a career bureaucrat.

And that's what he was, more than an officer of the law or servitor of justice. More than half of his job was spent navigating the complex laws governing myriad Republic worlds, playing diplomat between alien species that couldn't stand to be in the same room as each other. That, too, he liked, but it didnt mean it was easy.

So for now, all he could do was stand on the lawn of the Mandalorian embassy, kicking at the grass and waiting for one of Koras' tight-lipped escorts to wave him back in.

"Excuse me!" came a shout from the front gates. Tarisian police had set up a barricade at the front entrance to keep out the more curious onlookers. That hadn't stopped them from arriving in droves, though. Most just gawked silently, and this was the first to make any sort of scene. A purple-skinned Twi'lek in a black vest was leaning over the barricade, waving her arms at Markus. One of the officers went to shove her back into the crowd, but as soon as he leaned over the metal bars separating them, she slipped under the bottom-most one and took off running towards Markus.

She made it a good fifty feet before being tackled to the ground by three guards, all converging from different parts of the embassy grounds. Markus had watched the whole thing play out in amusement, and was impressed—he'd given her thirty feet, tops. As one of the guards climbed atop her to slap a pair of cuffs on her, Markus approached.

"There's not much to see," he said to her, pointing a thumb back at the embassy and its patched walls. Not that even _he_ had seen the inside, but he did know that Nara's body had been removed and sent back to Mandalore. Markus didnt dare suggest an autopsy.

"I want to speak to whoever is in charge!"

The guards ignored her pleas and hauled her to her feet, but Markus was curious. That, and as soon as she was gone, he would be back to standing around on the lawn staring up at Taris' putrid green sky. Might as well talk to her. He held up a hand, motioning for the officers to wait.

"That's me." Or at least as close as she would ever get to who was in charge. The Mandalorians certainly wouldn't play as nice as him.

"You suspect the wrong woman!" she said. "I _know _Sunon did not do this."

He didnt bother stopping his eyes from reflexively rolling in their sockets. Every high-profile crime brought out the crazies, like this Twi'lek.

"Oh yeah? You know her?" He expected a stumbling non-response, but she was quick to answer.

"Yes! Look." She nodded towards the datapad on her belt. Markus took it in hand. Displayed on the screen was what could only be described as a family photo, though the characters involved were baffling. There was a middle-aged mountain of a human woman sitting on a couch with her legs crossed, holding a red-skinned infant in a bundle of cloth. Seated beside her was a young Twi'lek girl—with the same skin color as the one before him now—who stared at the baby in abject horror.

"She is my sister," the Twi'lek said.

"She's a Sith," he shot back. "You're a Twi'lek, and the woman in this picture is a human."

"My mother was a Mandalorian," she added quickly.

It just kept getting better. Markus shooed the guards way with some muttered assurances that he had the woman under control, then turned his attention back to the datapad.

"See?" she pointed at the baby. "That is Sunon."

"Yeah, I got it." Markus brushed her hand away. "I'm just trying to understand." He still had some lingering suspicions—namely that the photo was a fake and the woman playing at some sort of game—but she was convincing enough that he felt compelled to start asking real questions. Most people crazy enough to charge an active crime scene weren't _also_ put together enough to fake a convincing story.

"When did you last see her?"

"Two years ago."

All hopes of this 'sister' being a fruitful lead were dashed. Even if the Twi'lek were telling the truth, two years was enough time to turn even family into strangers.

"And you don't know where she's been for all that time?"

She looked at the ground and clasped her wrist in front of her, then shook her head. "Not after..."

"After?" he echoed, trying to draw out the rest of whatever she was so reluctant to say.

"My mother was murdered, and Sunon was caught in the middle of it. Afterwards, she ran away. I haven't seen her since."

"Murdered?" His interest was peeked again.

"On Corellia, by hired mercenaries," she said. "Sunon told the police they wore Mandalorian armor."

None of that was immediate help for Markus or his investigation, but it certainly hinted at the Sith's motivation. The Twi'lek didnt seem to grasp that, though, nor what he was trying to get at. He handed the datapad back to her.

"Look..."

"Ayahe," she said.

"Ayahe... people can change a lot in two years. They change even more after something bad happens to them."

She nodded along, then stopped and looked at him with all the indignant fury she could muster.

"What are you saying?"

He sighed and stepped towards her. "I'm saying that your sister is a _suspect. _She had motive, means, and opportunity." He pointed back at the embassy, and the two armored Mandalorian sentries posted in the doorway. With their full-faced helmets and heavy shoulder pads, they looked more like guardian statues than human beings.

"See those Mandalorians?"

Ayahe nodded.

"There's more of them inside, and they work for the brother of the deceased. Right now he's busy working himself into a fury, ready to bring down the unholy might of an entire clan on her killer."

The Twi'lek's dark purple skin turned a shade paler, and she swallowed hard.

"You don't want them to find her first," he continued. "And neither do I. I'm not promising to help you, _or _your sister. Frankly, I think she's guilty."

Ayahe was still staring at the Mandalorians, and he had to step in front of her to get her to look at him again.

"But if you work with me, I promise I will do my best to make sure she faces Republic justice, not Mandalorian justice."

The Twi'lek stood silent for a moment, then nodded.

* * *

Thirteen men and women sat in a circle of fourteen chairs. The heads of Mandalore's largest clans, assembled for a meeting that recent events had made inevitable. Among them was Koras Jendri, younger brother to the deceased. Condolences were paid and grief expressed, but the conversation soon turned political. A politician _had _died, after all.

And with that shift in the discussion came a subtle change in how they treated the boy. They excluded him, shutting him out as they talked amongst each other about the coming clan summit. Soon they, and all other clan leaders, would be meeting in person.

None of them was _really _there, after all. The room they sat in was a collective hologram, projected in the communications rooms of each participant. Koras himself was on Taris, in a secure room of the Mandalorian embassy.

"We should delay the vote," one man said.

Another clicked his tongue in distaste. "Because the political winds have shifted against you? If the clans are to have a say on joining the Republic, it should be where we _always _decide such matters—at the summit."

The first man slammed his fist down on his armchair, but the impact was lessened through the sterile audio of the communications link.

"You're politicizing Nara Jendri's murder! A week ago, you would have been happy to delay the vote."

"A politician murdered for her politics? Her death _is _political."

On and on they went, talking as if Koras wasn't even there. He had given up trying to get a word in and simply sat in his chair, staring at the single empty one across from him. It wasn't Nara's seat—she would have sat exactly where he did now. The empty seat was reserved for Mandalore, martial and spiritual leader of their people.

Or at least, once upon a time. Now there was no Mandalore, and no Nara. Just endless bickering that had him squeezing the armrests of his chair until the wood felt ready to crack.

Then, a flicker of light appeared above the empty seat. At first he took it for a glitch, some corruption of the data stream. But the light continued to spread, forming into the legs and torso of a man. One by one the talking around Koras ceased, and the bewildered clan leaders stared in shock at the tall, blonde man seated before them. He wore gold-trimmed black military dress, and a skin-tight cowl that covered his neck and lower jaw. Koras knew him, but only by reputation.

"Tralus?" one of the woman said in disbelief. "Tralus Varad?"

A roar of murmurs went up.

"How did you join this call?" shouted an older man. He stood from his chair as if ready to take the intruder out by the scruff of his collar, but sat back down once he remembered that physical interaction was impossible. A few of the Mandalorians were talking in low whispers to technicians near them in the real world, asking what had happened.

"I hope you don't mind." Tralus turned back to the high-backed chair he sat on. "You left only one seat open."

No one found the disrespectful act funny. Koras didnt either, but cracked a slight smile at seeing the noble men and women alongside him brought down a peg. Tralus' attention quickly went to Koras, who went rigid at the sight of those intense blue eyes staring him down.

Tralus bowed his head slightly. "Word travels slowly these days, even in the inner rim. I only just received word."

Koras met his bow with one of his own, and Tralus turned his steely gaze to the other leaders who looked at him as a man who had dredged up a topic that had long since gone stale.

"Surely you haven't turned to other matters so soon?"

A man scoffed. "You _hated _Nara, and she hated you." A murmur of agreement went up, one Koras all but echoed aloud. He was too young to have truly followed his sister's work for more than a year's time, but he knew full well that there was no love lost between Clan Jendri and Clan Varad.

"Hated? No." Tralus hung his head and cracked a wry smile. "We disagreed on a great many things. Everything, really—except for one thing." He looked up at Koras. "We both _despised _the Sith Empire."

No one was about to contest that point. Clan Varad had been cast out by Artus Lok—better known as Mandalore the Vindicated—when Tralus' father had rebelled against Imperial hegemony. He had slandered Artus as a coward and a puppet of the Sith—on the latter point, he had been right. When the Empire of Zakuul had invaded, Artus had been killed. The Mandalorians gained a new master and a new Mandalore. That new Mandalore had been instrumental in overthrowing the Empire of Zakuul, but once she had done that, she had disappeared—leaving them both masterless and leaderless. Free, but without purpose or direction.

"I hated politicians," Tralus spat. "With their hollow words and empty speeches." His own words were directed squarely at the other clan leaders, and for Koras called to mind their emotionless expressions of feigned grief.

"Your sister was the worst of them," he continued. Koras shot up in his chair and glared at Tralus, but the older man continued speaking before he could object. "I saw in her all the worst parts of Mandalore. We were once warriors, who held the galaxy by the throat. Now we're reduced to... this." He gestured at the clan leaders who fumed silently.

"You're wrong," shouted Koras. All eyes in the room turned towards him as the boy who had hardly said a word during the entire meeting suddenly shook the virtual room with the force of his voice. "My sister was _brave. _She died bravely."

"I know," Tralus said somberly. "I _was _wrong."

Koras sat back in his chair, taken off-guard by the frank admission.

"I did not come to offer my condolences. I came to offer my congratulations."

Koras' jaw dropped in shock.

"Nara Jendri died as Mandalorians should—fighting for their people. I hope that when my own time comes, it is no less glorious."

Koras' hands clenched into fists, and he took a deep breath in to steady his quivering lip. He tilted his chin up, straightened his back, and gave a strong nod of acknowledgement to Tralus. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he did so.

"Very moving, Tralus," a young man said in dry tones. "None of that changes the fact that your clan was cast out decades ago, and is not welcome here."

"Cast out by whom? Artus Lok?" Tralus refused to use the title of Mandalore for the deceased leader, as was custom. "He _sold _us to the Sith to satisfy his own greed! Do you consider him a model decision maker?"

He was met with silence. Mandalore the Vindicated was not honored the same way past Mandalores had been, and Sith sympathizers were not well-regarded in general. Political views on Mandalore ranged from those who desired full membership in the Republic, to the old guard who wanted an isolationist, self-sufficient Mandalore. Few yearned for the return of the Imperial yoke.

"Mandalore the Avenger never rescinded your clan's banishment." All eyes turned to the woman who had spoken up, then back to Tralus.

"And where is Shae Vizla?" He waved at the chair he sat on—her chair—for emphasis. "She aided the Alliance in overthrowing the Empire of Zakuul, and then vanished."

"She never wanted to rule," Koras added quickly. Artus Lok's successor was a war hero, but her time as Mandalore had been brief and consisted of little in the way of actual governance. Tralus gave him a smirk and a slight nod, as if appreciative of the fact that he finally had an ally in the argument.

"My point exactly," Tralus said. "For all her prowess as a commander, how can we possibly hold up her lack of political action as evidence of anything? She _made _no political actions."

"Enough!" exclaimed Malko Fett. A dark-skinned man, old and wizened with a dark green robe that barely hid the pounds he had packed on with age. "Both Mandalores knew your clan was dangerous. We _all _do." He gestured at his fellow leaders. "Do you think we don't know what you're doing in the inner rim? You've assembled an army."

Tralus' calm expression turned to righteous anger in an instant.

"Those people are our brothers and sisters! I've pulled them away from the lure of the Sith and brought them back under the banner of Mandalore."

"To do what?" said another man.

"To fight," Tralus stated simply. "That is what we do—or at least, it is what we _did."_

"We have _moved on," _someone said. Koras couldn't tell who as murmured agreement quickly followed. "Your clan clings to a past that is dead—and better left buried."

Tralus hung his head and shook it in disgust. "They are _people, _and they are not dead. Nor are they Mandalore's past. They are its future."

No one was still listening to him—no one, except for Koras. He had listened to the entire exchange completely enraptured, but was soon broken from the spell by the flurry of conversation that went up as the other leaders ignored both he and Tralus.

"Can the Republic ensure our safety?" said one of them. They were discussing the imminent summit, a meeting which would not take place on Mandalore. It was part political gathering, part holy pilgrimage, and involved a ceremonial trip to the distant inner rim planet of Ubduria. That world lay in the space between Empire and Republic, a wild area with constantly shifting borders and criss-crossing hyperspace lanes. With one of their own dead at the hands of a Sith assassin, the clan leaders were wary of assembling their entire leadership in one location so distant.

The planet itself was nothing, a rocky wasteland with no sentient species—but its symbolism was great. Long ago, the Mandalorians had conducted their first crusade against the native Ubdurians, a species they had killed off for the cowardice they displayed in battle. Now, the Mandalorians themselves were afraid to even _venture_ to the graveyard planet, lest they themselves fall prey to a Sith attack. The irony was not lost on Koras. Tralus sat back in his chair and gave the room a tired look, though his eyes connected with Koras' for a brief moment.

"Perhaps we should hold the summit on Mandalore..." came a muttered suggestion from one of the noblemen. Some equally half-hearted murmurs of agreement went up, and Koras looked at them in horror and anger.

"Cowards!" Koras slammed his fists down on his chair. It was the second such outburst he had made, but the effect was no less quieting than the first time. "I will make the pilgrimage alone! _I _will light the sacred fires! _I _will kneel in front of the tomb of the fallen!" He may have just been a boy, but that served to heighten the shaming effect of his words. None of the clan leaders had been proud about the change they had nearly agreed to, and it only took one of them voicing their own doubts for them to drop the matter completely.

Malko Fett sighed and stared down at his folded hands. "We cannot pull our standing forces away from Mandalore to escort our fleets. Do we trust the Republic's ability to keep the Sith from their own borders?"

No one was willing to answer, but everyone knew that the Republic lacked the ability to stop a meaningful incursion from Sith space. What happened within the space of the fractured Empire was largely a mystery to those outside it, and military intelligence came at a premium.

"No," said Koras. "We will trust Mandalorians."

"I just said—" Malko looked up at him, but stopped when he saw that Koras' gaze was fixed firmly on Tralus. The leader of clan Varad had detached himself from the conversation, and took a moment to register the implications of Koras' words. He sat up straight in his chair, waiting patiently for the boy to continue.

"Clan Jendri alone cannot afford—" Malko started. This time it was Tralus who cut him off, with a raised hand and a sharp glare.

"My clan will not _accept_ credits when their is honor to be earned." Tralus turned back to Koras. "Even in times of great war, the summit has been held. We will make sure of that."

Malko fell silent, and the remaining clan leaders followed suit. Koras, who had felt so small under the weight of their words and presence, now bristled with confidence.

"We can arrange the details later," he said to Tralus. The man nodded, giving only the briefest smile before flickering out of existence, leaving the seat of Mandalore once again empty. The room remained silent. No one, except for Koras, seemed to know what to say.

"I will see all leaders of Mandalore on Ubduria when the time comes." He looked around at the faces of the assembled Mandalorians. Some stared at their twiddling thumbs, others looked at him in annoyance, and still others were engaged in frantic talks with their fellows in the real world. "I hope that includes at least one of you."

With that last blow to their wounded egos he ended the call, and the holographic projection faded, putting him back in the silent, marble confines of the embassy's comm room.


	7. Help Those Who Help Themselves

After the aborted attack on Sunon and Gamin, they were swept along by jubilant Meerians who regarded the both of them—but mainly her—with reverent awe. Neither of them was quite sure what to make of it, but they weren't willing to risk making a break from the gang of natives. The Meerians may have been happy _now, _but they still had more than enough blasters to point at them, should circumstances change.

She couldn't hear much of what the Meerian leader said to them in in his broken Basic, but she got his name—Zolamassis. He was their leader. 'Foreman', he said. It was unlikely that was an accurate translation of his true position—most likely he'd picked up the word from the human miners who ran the automated mining operations near the city.

Sunon also found out what had turned Bandor's suburbs into a warzone. He had led his people in a revolt against Czerka's ever-expanding mining operations, and in retaliation had faced a mercenary army that swept through the city, kicking down doors on confiscating weapon. Quite a few Meerians died, many more were injured, and Bandomeer's vast mineral wealth remained safely in the hands of Czerka.

All of that tragedy had gone in one ear and out the other, until Zola stopped and rapped his knuckles on her armor. The mercenaries had been wearing armor just like hers, he said. That got her interest, and in her desire to find out more, she stopped looking for an opportunity to split and run. After a few minutes of walking, Zora held up his fist, signalling for the group to stop.

The armed Meerians scurried from the street into nearby buildings and alleys, taking Sunon and Gamin with them. A few moments later came the roar of a patrol cruiser flying low overhead, kicking up a cloud of dust wherever it went. Once the sky was clear the group emerged back onto the street, and Zola continued to lead them, this time at a much faster pace.

"Much danger," he said.

After awhile they came to the edge of the city, just barely within sight of the distant plateau where Sunon had stashed the Mantis. The group descended into a low valley that shielded them from view of the city, circling down towards an abandoned quarry dug into the hard dirt. Enormous digging machines lay dormant, either too old or too big for Czerka to bother moving. On one end of the quarry was a massive tunnel entrance, a pitch-black gaping hole a hundred feet in diameter.

No sooner had it swallowed them up than they saw a light at the end of the tunnel—or rather, a hundred lights, of all different colors and intensities. After an initial darkened, curving passage that the Meerians lit with lamps hung from their belts, they came to a long hall no smaller than the initial entrance.

It was a near-perfect circle, and lined with bright crystals that shone with every color imaginable. They throbbed and pulsed in time with each other, though their light grew in intensity as Gamin passed them, then faded again as he grew further away. He seemed to take great amusement in the phenomenon—the Meerians watched with great interest as he stopped in front of one and moved his hand back and forth, making the blue crystal wax and wane.

"Move." Sunon grabbed him by the arm and gave him a shove back in the direction of Zola, who wasn't as interested in the light show as his lessers.

"You didnt bring us down here just us to show us this, did you?" she said to the Meerian.

He shook his head and gestured further down the tunnel. "Close."

A few minutes later they emerged into a far grander expanse—a cavernous space with high walls and tiered terraces of rock with an entire shanty town built atop them. Mixed in with the makeshift homes were crates of supplies, weaponry, and even a few armored ground cruisers. Men cleaned rifles right next to women who sat nursing babies, and children chased each other under the rusted out husks of more abandoned mining machinery. The entire underground town was lit up by the rainbow of crystals dug into the walls and ground, casting the scene in a rainbow light.

It was bizarre.

"You... live down here?" Gamin said.

Zola wheeled his hand around in the air as he walked. "Work, play, make fight..."

They came to an open tent near the center of the cavern, either Zola's home or command post—maybe both. Inside were a handful of cots, half of them occupied, and a large metal table covered in maps of Bandor's urban environs. The Meerian was very trusting to bring them here, but that trust made Sunon nervous. If Zola decided that they _couldn't _be trusted, he wouldn't simply let them leave of their own volition. Gamin, on the other hand, seemed to pick up on none of what Sunon did.

Zola spoke to one of his followers, and a moment later was given a bulky headset that he placed over his short, silvery hair.

"Now that you are here, we will no longer have to hide." The Meerian was speaking in his native tongue, but his voice was drowned out by one from the headset that spoke in crisp, clear Basic with an unmistakable Core World accent.

"What do you mean?" Gamin turned away from the maps he had made a mess of, and watched in confusion as Zola knelt in front of Sunon.

"As leader of my people, I humbly ask that we be allowed to join the Sith Empire."

Now, Sunon understood. They hadn't just taken pleasure in seeing a representative of the hated Mandalorians assassinated. They thought her actions portended further Sith incursions into the inner rim—and apparently, were more than happy to be the first conquest if it meant throwing out Czerka.

"What?" Gamin grinned in disbelief. "We aren't—"

Sunon shot him a murderous glare that stopped him short, then looked down at Zola.

"Why would the Sith Empire want this barren rock?" she asked him.

"There is _vast _wealth here." He gestured outward, at the crystal-lined cavern outside the tent. All around him, the assembled onlookers murmured in agreement. "It is yours—all of it. We only ask that mining around Bandor cease." He looked up at her with a heart-stricken expression. "They pollute our skies. They poison our water—and we see none of the credits they earn." A murmur of angry agreement went up around them. "Better for it all to be gone, if we can at least keep our home."

Few worlds would ever _ask _to join the Sith Empire—least of all now, when it had collapsed in on itself like a black hole. But to the Meerians, the legendary stories of Sith cruelty and excess might as well have been fairy tales. Exploitation by Czerka and the blind eyes of the Republic were the reality they lived every day. It was no wonder they were so desperate as to look at the Sith before them and see their savior. She couldn't save them—nor did she have any desire to—but that didnt change her answer.

"I agree to your terms," she said. The other Meerians didn't seem to understand her, but as soon as they saw their leader rising to his feet with a smile on his face they broke out into a cheer.

"Tonight, we will celebrate," said Zola, who then gestured to Gamin. "Your manservant is welcome as well."

Gamin put himself between the two of them and looked Zola straight in the eyes. "I am _not _her servant."

Zola seemed confused, but Sunon had no intention of letting the man before her lead the Meerian to any inconvenient truths.

"He's my apprentice!" As she spoke she took a step closer, extending a blade from her gauntlet just far enough to dig the tip into Gamin's back. "He hasn't failed me yet. If he _did_ fail me, I'd have to kill him. That's what Sith do, after all."

Gamin swallowed hard, only allowing himself to breathe once Sunon had withdrawn the blade enough for him to relax his rigid back.

"I do have a servant, though," Sunon said. "A Miraluka. She was wounded, and I had to leave her with one of your... healers." She couldn't let the Meerians speak to Ibayo before she did. Half a minute of meaningful discussion between the two would blow Sunon's cover wide open.

Zola nodded along as she spoke.

"I have... how do you say it—a bountiful yield, and a poor one."

Another Meerian whispered into his ear.

"Good news and bad news," he corrected himself. "Your servant is fine, and is in fact receiving the best medical care available on Bandomeer."

Gamin heaved a sigh of relief, but Sunon steeled herself for the coming 'bad' part.

"Czerka has her. One of our own must have told them of the three off worlders roaming our streets."

For a moment, Sunon was as relieved as Gamin had been. Ibayo would live through the wound Sunon had given her. Whatever happened after that? Not her fault, and not her problem.

Then, she was seized with the same panic as Gamin—though for very different reasons.

"My ship!" she exclaimed. "I landed outside Bandor. I need to move it somewhere safer."

Zola raced to stop her from starting for the path out of the tunnel.

"The winds!" he said. "They come every night, and last until morning. Czerka will not be able to search for your ship, but you will not be able to go to it, either. Even a Sith Master such as yourself would be torn apart."

She stopped when she remembered the violent gusts that had nearly sent the Mantis careening into hillocks when she had set it down some hours ago. If conditions really were as bad as Zola said, she didnt fancy risking it. She wasn't a Sith Master, after all. She was a woman in a suit of armor—and she didnt even have her helmet. Sunon composed herself and adopted the regal pose of a Sith about to make a demand of her lessers.

"If Czerka has my servant, then I am down to myself, my Apprentice, and..." She curled her lip in disdain and gestured at the Meerians. "This."

Zola's expression sunk—she almost felt bad.

"We need reinforcements," she said. "If we're to have any hope of defeating Czerka, I will need you to fix my ship so that my Apprentice can bring them here."

"Them?" Zola's interest was piqued.

"Sith warriors," she said in a tone carefully calculated to instill awe. "_Legions _of them."

Zola translated to his comrades, who gasped and chattered excitedly.

"We can fix any ship!" Zola declared proudly. "We are a people who do much with little."

"The hyperdrive is broken," Sunon continued. "I hope that won't give you any challenge." Thas was what she _really _needed from them, but she was careful to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible.

"It will be done. We have enough spare parts in this complex to build five—no, ten—new starships!" He barked out a few orders to some of his followers, who split off from the main group to prepare whatever supplies would be hauled to Sunon's ship come morning.

The Meerians were momentarily dealt with, and she was confident that she could find some way to ditch them and leave Bandomeer behind once they had repaired her ship. That left her with only one problem—the very angry man at her side.

* * *

Zola had promised a celebratory feast, and he had delivered—in a fashion. Fine cuisine and appetising delicacies probably weren't available on a rock Bandomeer in the best of times. In a cave serving as the staging ground of a beaten-down rebellion, all they had available were the ration packs stolen from Czerka, as well as what few crops the locals managed to grow in the poisoned soil around Bandor. Most dishes featured a peculiar vegetable Sunon had never seen before—like an onion, but harder and blander. _'Much protein,' _one of the Meerians had proudly said to her when she took a bite of it.

The food was less than satisfying, but she wouldn't have been able to enjoy even a normal meal. Seated at a table behind hers was Gamin, his eyes burning a hole in her back while Zola talked her ear off. The rebel leader sounded like he had big plans for his planet once Czerka was gone, but she tuned him out before the first course was done with. Her mind quickly went to thoughts of how she would find Tralus once she had left Bandomeer's dusty plains behind.

By time time Sunon finished her meal and reached the tent set up for her and her 'apprentice', Gamin was already there and waiting for her. He sat on one of the room's two cots, feet jumping up and down and thumbs twiddling furiously between his knees. Whatever he was about to say, he had been thinking about it hard.

"You're not going to help these people, are you?" he said, eyes still pointed at the ground.

"What tipped you off?" She began to pry off her armor, setting it down in a neat pile beside her own cot as she stripped down to the black jumpsuit underneath.

"And what about Ibayo? Are you just going to leave her with Czerka?"

"I'll take you with me once they fix my ship," she said. "So keep your goddamn voice down."

"I don't care about that!" This time he spoke far louder, and had to stop to calm himself. Sunon had thought that her promise of getting him off Bandomeer would have settled him down, but it only seemed to make him angrier.

"You almost kill a woman just because she stopped you from shooting me, and now you're going to leave her here?"

"Its her fault," Sunon muttered as she settled down onto the hard cot. There was no conviction behind her words, no real belief that Sunon had anyone but _herself _to blame for what had happened. She just didnt want to think about it anymore.

"You know what'll happen to her, right? They'll hand her over to Mandalore, and she'll face a Mandalorian firing squad. An innocent woman will _die _because you got her tangled up in your own mess."

Images of Maliss' blaster-riddled armor and cold, lifeless face flashed through Sunon's mind. Pain lanced through her skull like a knife and she winced, dropping the bracers in her hands to the ground.

"You don't care about that, though." Gamin leaned back on his cot and looked at her in disgust he didnt even try to hide. "Why would a mercenary care if they get someone killed? You just cut and run."

His words sent her to a time and place far from Bandomeer, to that night on Corellia two years ago. It was a common sight in her dreams, but she had never experienced it so vividly in the waking world before. She could feel Tralus' fists splitting open her cheeks, smell the wet iron of fresh blood, hear the harsh squeal of blaster fire that Maliss shielded her from.

Sunon squeezed her eyes shut and placed her hands over her ears, but blocking out the real world only made the unwanted memories replaying in her head all the more visceral. She may not have been able to hear Gamin—if he was even still talking—but his words continued to bounce around in her skull, layered over the squall of rain as Maliss bled out in the street.

It wasn't his words themselves that had power—it was the fact that they echoed her own thoughts so clearly. Maliss died because of her. She had almost killed Ibayo, who would _still _die because of her. Each attempt to seek justice for her aunt brought Sunon further from any hope of peace, and she could no longer see an end to her mission.

"Shut up!" she screamed, her voice ringing her skull like a bell as she sought to drown out the scene playing in her mind with sheer, senseless noise. She pressed on the sides of her head as hard as she could, as if she could force out every unwanted memory through sheer brute strength.

"Shut up!" She yelled the words over and over, a violent mantra that gradually overcame Gamin's voice until it faded away, taking with it the images of death and pain. Her throat burned, like she had drank battery acid. It was only then that she realized that her screams had not been confined to her mind.

She let her hands fall away from her head and lifted her heavy eyelids to see Gamin staring at her in abject fear. The tent flap was open, and a group of equally terrified Meerians was standing just outside the entryway. As soon as they saw her looking at them they retreated, leaving Sunon to lift her legs onto the cot and lay down with her back turned to Gamin.

She had broken down like that before, but never in front of another person. As always, after the head-splitting pain that had her wanting to tear her hair out, came a deep feeling of utter exhaustion, both body and soul. She couldn't find the energy to open her eyes more than halfway, nor close them. All she could do was stare at the dirty brown tent wall while tears obscured her vision.

"Are you alright?" Gamin said. She could tell from his voice that he was still seated on the other end of the tent. There was some genuine concern in his voice, but there was fear, too.

"I want to see my sister," she said with a wet sniff. She spoke the words just as they appeared in her mind, like she was simply too exhausted to stop thoughts from turning to speech.

"Your sister?"

"She's a genius. She helps people—I just hurt them."

"Can she use the Force?"

"No," Sunon said, before quickly adding, "She's a Twi'lek."

"Is she..." He trailed off, though it was clear that he wanted to ask if she was dead.

"She's out there, somewhere."

"You haven't been able to find her?"

Quite the opposite—Sunon had followed every twist and turn of Ayahe's life through what she could glean from social media and the very public career of an esteemed Core World researcher. It just wasn't a life Sunon had a right to be a part of.

"I can't. Not until I kill Tralus Varad."

Unfortunately for the tired Sith, her seeming massive leap in logic only made Gamin more intent to get to the bottom of what drove her.

"Who?" The cot creaked as he leaned forward. Maybe he suspected that it was connected to the events that had made him a wanted man. On that count, he was right.

"Do you want to hear a story?"

"Sure," he replied warily.

Maliss' murder wasn't a tale she had told anyone since her time in a Corellian police station, but she had no trouble recounting the night with all the vivid detail of an elder storyteller. Gamin remained silent through all of it, and as she neared the end she rolled over in her cot to check that he was still there. Her tears had long since dried, and looking him in the eye didnt feel quite so mortifying a prospect as before.

"Ayahe came to the station," Sunon said. "She slapped me over and over." An awkward smile crept across Sunon's face, and Gamin mirrored it with an uneasy one of his own. "Then, she left. I heard her talking to one of the officers."

She let the moment hang, waiting for Gamin to ask her just what she had said, but he was too engrossed in her story to do anything but listen intently with a hunched back and clasped hands.

"She's not my sister," Sunon said, recounting Ayahe's words. "She's an orphan my mother took in. Now, she's dead because of her."

Sunon was no longer looking at Gamin, but she could hear him shifting uncomfortably.

"If I kill Tralus, she'll forgive me," Sunon said.

"She said that?"

Sunon shook her head, and Gamin didnt press the issue. For a time they sat in silence, the only sound the distant wail of a young child who had awoken in the night. The rest of the subterranean city had long since gone to sleep.

"That wasn't your fault," Gamin finally said. She closed her eyes, expecting to feel anger well up within her in response to the empty soothings of a man who hadn't even been there. For so long she had waited to unleash that righteous indignation, but weeks turned into months turned into years without a single soul telling her what he just had. Instead, what washed over her was a cool relief that sent a sigh from her mouth and made her rigid muscles relax.

"And you can't do anything about it, either," he continued. She knew that—she wasn't delusional. What she wanted was revenge, not resurrection.

"But _this,_ right now—this _is_ your fault. And you _can_ do something about it."

She knew he was right. Her guilt was no longer a deep-down niggling feeling. It was staring her right in the face. Sunon turned over in her bed, refusing to meet his eyes as she brought herself face to face with the wall of the tent.

"I'm tired," she said.

For minutes Gamin simply sat there, until finally he switched off the bedside lamp next to him and lay down on his cot with the creak of metal and plastic. More minutes passed, and despite the dead silence of the cave and the tired state of her mind, Sunon was no closer to sleep.

In her entire time spent trekking about the galaxy on the Mantis, she had never been able to sleep outside the ship. Even then, any sleep was split into unsatisfying chunks by nightmares that left her feeling more exhausted than when she had lay down. Her stopgap fix—which had become a semi-permanent solution—was to drug herself into unconsciousness. It was safe, but she knew what stigma that sort of drug use would earn her. She didn't do it to feel good, though. She did it to not feel anything at all.

"You awake?" Gamin said softly. Sunon nearly told him to go to sleep, but then stopped and remained as still as possible. Better to simply let him think she _was_ asleep.

"I had a brother." He let his words hang in there night stillness so that the implication of _'had' _could set in. "Like you had a sister. I mean, you _have _a sister now, but we both sort of lost—" His words grew increasingly frustrated as he stumbled over them and eventually he sighed and let his hands drop to his sides.

"He was a Jedi. I was too, for all of a year. Didnt even become a Padawan." Sunon had to contain a laugh. "He died in the final uprising against the Empire of Zakuul. My parents worshipped him, like they had given birth to a god. Years later, they find out _I'm _Force sensitive. They're the happiest they've been in years, and send me right off to Tython—"

He stopped abruptly and sat up in the bed. "Forget I told you the Jedi temple's on Tython." After a moment he eased himself back down and resumed his story. "I'm there for a year or so, and for _most _of it I'm thrilled out of my mind, too. I keep thinking they're going to train me to fight the next big war. I didnt seriously think _I _would save the galaxy on my own, but I really did believe I was going to do something important."

Gamin let out a ragged sigh, a tired sound that Sunon knew well from her own life. "Then I see where they're sending off the graduated Padawans. Half of them go to the civil service. A quarter become diplomats, functionaries, attaches... only the very best stayed with the Order itself. Those were the ones you _knew _could take on armies or crack a moon in two with their minds."

Sunon was sure he was exaggerating, but not by much. Maliss had told her over and over the stories of what her parents had done—the details of which had never changed, no matter how old or drunk the woman telling them got.

"You know where those one-in-a-billion types ended up?" Gamin said. "Right back at the Jedi temple, teaching people like me. Then I realized, that was what was waiting for me at the end of that road. If _everything _went right, the best I could hope for was being a teacher by the time I turned sixty." He blew air out threw his lips in disdain. "I'm sure it suits some people. I couldn't do it. Like I said though, more likely I would've gotten stuck as some Core World diplomat's flashy bodyguard."

Gamin went silent for a time, his meandering tale having gone in too many different directions for even the teller himself to keep track of them all.

"There are no more good fights to be had," he finally said. "We won because of people like my brother... but it sure doesn't feel like it."

It was the first thing he had said in a long while to truly strike a chord with her, and she found herself unable to stay silent after he had bared his soul to her like that.

"My parents died in the war," she blurted out.

Gamin gasped, but Sunon quickly realized it wasn't because of _what _she had said. He had thought she had been asleep, and simply taken the opportunity to talk to himself without seeming like a madman.

"The first Zakuulan invasion," she added.

"Ah."

She knew why Gamin was reluctant to say more without carefully considering his words. The Empire of Zakuul had not been defeated in a single war. The initial invasion, in which Zakuul's droid armies swept out from unknown space to cut a swathe of destruction across the galaxy, was a bloodbath. Legions of Jedi and Sith, Republic and Imperial troops, fell to their weapons. Both defeated governments were forced to surrender and endure five long years of domination before a galactic coalition formed to throw off the oppressive yoke of an Eternal Empire weakened by internal strife.

Maybe that first, ill-fated defensive war would have meant something if it had even slowed the invaders down, but it hadn't—and no one liked to think about pointless death, least of all the people who lost someone.

"I went looking for them in Imperial space," she said.

"Did you find them?"

"No." She had looked hard for any evidence of what had happened to them after they'd gone off to fight the invading Empire of Zakuul, but the desire for revenge against Tralus eventually came to outweigh her curiosity. Or maybe, she simply cared more about the aunt who had raised her than the parents she had never known.

"Did you ever think about staying in Sith space?"

She snorted. "I can't use the Force. Do you know what they'd do to me if they found out?" she said it matter-of-factly, without a hint of anger.

Truth was, she didn't really know. When the Sith Empire had been a cohesive entity, pureblood Sith and force-sensitive humans ranked highest on the totem pole. Below them were normal humans—the bulk of the empire—and below _them _were the myriad alien species who did their best to carve out a living within an empire that despised them.

Pureblood Sith who couldn't use the Force weren't even _on _the ranking list. They were an abomination, to be spat on at best and hunted down at worst. There wasn't a worse place in the galaxy for someone like Sunon than Sith space.

"And that doesn't piss you off?" Gamin said.

"No." She knew nothing about the Sith. They were no more her people than the Meerians she had promised to help. "I've got my own problems. I don't have time for someone else's."

"Yeah, but this is _right here, right now." _He nearly shouted the words, though he seemed more excited than angry. "Maybe that's why I want to do something for these people. I've found my good fight."

After a few moments he let out a laugh that quickly became a resigned sigh.

"Can't do it on my own, though."

Sunon didnt hear the rest of what he said, but not because she was tuning him out. In fact, she had never listened more carefully to someone's sleepy rambling. She stopped listening because she finally, mercifully, fell asleep.

* * *

Gamin awoke to the sight of an empty cot across the tent from him. He was disappointed, but he wasn't surprised. Sometime during the night the Sith had slinked with some Meerians in tow to repair her ship and leave him stranded. She was gone, but that left him with the question of what exactly to tell the Meerians. The truth, he supposed.

He wasn't a fan of confession, but he saw no other route out of this than coming clean and hoping they were feeling sympathetic. The Meerians were being oppressed by a tyrannical regime, after all—he had been in a similar predicament.

As he rose to his feet and worked the kinks out of his aching back, he heard a roar of chatter that echoed throughout the cave, making it hard to identify its source. It didn't sound angry, though—more... excited. Outside, dozens of Meerians were gathered around Zola's tent.

Their numbers made it hard to see whether their leader was among them, but he had no trouble spotting the towering Sith within the open-air tent. She was hunched over a table at the center, speaking animatedly to someone across from her. Gamin approached and gently pushed his way to the middle of the spectacle to find that it was Zola she was talking to.

"Look at us!" The old man gestured at his gathered followers. "What can _we alone _possibly do?"

He locked eyes with Gamin, as if pleading for help in dealing with the Sith he had called Master. Unfortunately for the Meerian, he had even less sway than even a Sith Apprentice would—nor did he have the faintest idea of what the Sith was trying to talk him into.

"You can attack the inner city," Sunon said. "Throw Czerka off of your world."

Zola blanched a shade whiter than even his palest comrade. "We thought the Sith Empire would help us!"

"The Sith Empire values strength. Why would we want a people who can't even protect their own?"

That question gave Zola pause. Hearing those words come out of the red-skinned woman's mouth had Gamin thinking, if only for a moment, that he was standing before an actual Sith Lord.

"The last time we rose up, they brought their mercenaries here." Zola's voice was a low whisper that trembled as he spoke. "You _saw _our streets. They went from home to home, beating and murdering even those who had refused to join our cause."

The rest of the Meerians had grown silent as well. Sunon leaned over the table and looked at the maps as she drummed her fingers in thought.

"When will you stop fighting?" she said. "Would you ever just... leave Bandomeer?"

"Never!" Zola exclaimed. "This is our home!" He was echoed by a chorus of murmured agreement. Sunon looked up from the maps to peer down at Zola.

"And when will Czerka leave?"

The group went silent, and Zola struggled to answer a question that seemed half-strategic thought, half-riddle. The Meerians were a reclusive and provincial people, but even they understood how expansive and powerful Czerka was. They could be battered and bruised, but a thousand rebels on a single planet were never going to _beat _Czerka.

"They'll stay as long as there's credits to be made," Gamin said. He had intended his remark to be a sarcastic dismissal of her question, but as soon as the words left his mouth he realized that was just the answer she was looking for. Zola seemed to realize this as well, though his momentary excitement lessened as he stroked his stubbly chin furiously.

"We already hurt their operations," Zola said. "We damaged drilling emplacements, we stripped the treads from sand crawlers—"

Sunon huffed in frustration and shoved off of the table. "How much abandoned mining equipment do you walk by every time you come here?" She gestured to the entrance of the cavern system and the rusted megaliths in the quarry outside.

"Czerka doesn't care if you break their toys," she continued. "You're a leader. What would stop you from fighting, more than anything else?"

Zola frowned at the implication that the loss of some munitions or supplies would ever make his resolve waver.

"Nothing!" he insisted. "Our strength is our people!"

Sunon nodded along and waved her hand about in the air, as if to speed the old Meerian along towards her desired conclusion. After a moment the man's expression softened and his eyes went wide.

"We strike at their people!"

"Yes." Sunon thumbed the map with an armored finger. "Last time, you didnt even _try _to hit them past the inner city walls. That's where they keep their real resources—engineers, administrators, and security crews."

Zola was enraptured, but the other Meerians mumbled uneasily.

"We cannot breach their defenses," one protested. Zola shushed him with a wave of the hand, but seemed to see the truth in what he was saying.

"You have seen them on your way here, yes?" said Zola. "They have automated turret emplacements, regular patrols. And the walls themselves are impossible—"

Sunon held up a hand, stopping him. "None of that will matter once we disable their defenses from the inside."

"How will we get inside?"

"They'll invite you in," she said to Zola. "I'm the most wanted women in this sector, right?" She pointed to Gamin. "You'll walk me and him right in—as prisoners."

The Meerians chattered excitedly. Gamin had seen—and felt, in the form of a nasty shock—their love for subterfuge and stealth attacks. The plan was bold, but it could work. Unfortunately, the viability of the plan wasn't the reason he was getting more anxious with each word she said.

"Sunon," Gamin exclaimed, swallowing the lump in his throat as all eyes turned to him. "Czerka had mercenaries sweep the city the last time these people damaged some equipment. What will they do if this escalates further?"

Zola looked uneasily from him to Sunon.

"How many people did you lose to them?" Sunon asked Zola.

"Too many," he spat, shaking his head. The Sith continued to stare him down, and the leader shrugged. "Ten percent of all who can fight, maybe."

"Ten percent." Gamin could hear her struggling to contain a laugh as she stood up straight. "Czerka sends an army of Mandalorian mercs in, and they kill a tenth of you?"

Gamin was loathe to make light of what—and who—they had lost, but the number did seem... light.

"Death is bad for business." Sunon continued. "Your death, their death, all of it. If you march into that city and burn it to the ground, they'll have no choice but to abandon this world. They can't retaliate and have Republic senators accusing them of genocide, or shareholders asking why entire company towns keep getting murdered."

"Ok," Zola said, his voice a low whisper. "Your plan makes sense to us." His comrades nodded in solemn agreement. But you talk about burning their city to the ground..."

"That's what war looks like," Sunon said. "They die fast, or you die slow."

Gamin could tell from the Meerians' shocked reactions that they had never thought of their conflict with Czerka in such stark terms. For a people who _lived _the ugliness of warfare every day, they sure couldn't handle thinking about it.

"Will you die?" Sunon circled around the table and peered down at Zola. "Or will they die?"

Her height and size made her strike an imposing figure even against a human like Gamin. To the diminutive Meerian, she must have looked like a demon from the depths of their planet.

Zola swallowed and looked up at her, his once-melancholy expression replaced by a grim mask of determination.

"They will die," he said.

"Then get your men ready."

Zola nodded and turned away, marching through his crowd of followers with a confident stride that infected even Gamin with some patriotic fervor. A cheer rose up, the Meerians pumping their fists and chanting 'Dul mak! Dul mak!' over and over. He had no idea what the chant could possibly mean until Zola joined in—as did the universal translator he wore.

"They die!" he shouted in time with his followers as he strode off to the other end of the cavern. Gamin watched in horror as the group swelled with energy and numbers, then tore himself away to run over to Sunon. She wore an excited grin, leaving him feeling like the only sane man in a cave gone mad.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He grabbed her arm to lead her away, but quickly withdrew it and motioned for her to follow him. Unwanted touching was half the reason they were in this situation to begin with.

"What is it?" she said impatiently. They were far off enough from the Meerians to speak without being heard, giving Gamin no reason to hold back the many reservations he had with her plan.

_"They die?"_ he hissed, gesturing at the Meerians and echoing the chant they carried off into the distance. "Were you serious about all that?"

She looked at him in confusion, but those searching eyes quickly narrowed and her expression darkened.

"You said I should help!" Her voice echoed off the cavernous walls loudly enough to draw the attention of even those Meerians still pre-emptively celebrating their impending victory. "Were _you_ serious?" she shot back. "Was all that stuff you said just bullshit?"

"No!" He edged in closer to keep their conversation from wandering ears. None of the Meerians seemed to speak more than a few words of Basic, but there was a chance they understood more than that.

"I meant it, and I'm glad you decided to stay." He glanced down and rubbed his palms over his tired eyes, wondering if he had even woken at all. Perhaps this was some fever dream and the Sith was already worlds away. "You're talking about killing a small city full of people."

"Some will evacuate."

That was small comfort to Gamin, who had never seen someone die until a few days ago. Nara Jendri's lifeless stare haunted his dreams, and seeing that Jedi nearly died saving him had just about made his heart stop. His conscience couldn't handle _thousands more _deaths.

"You wanted to fight a battle, right?" Sunon said. "This is what fighting _is_."

It was true, he had talked a big talk about finding a worthy fight to take part in—a noble cause,valued allies, all that. He tended to get poetic when he was sleepy. But _this? _Even if they succeeded, it would be a slaughter.

* * *

No one likes digging through garbage. Least of all Markus, though that hadn't stopped him from wading knee-deep in a communal refuse bin in one of Taris' many back alleys. The sun and the temperature were both sky-high, making the affair an especially unpleasant one.

"We are wasting valuable time!" The Twi'lek woman who had been trailing at his side all day stomped her foot on the ground outside the garbage container where he was sifting through junked electronics and day-old food.

"You're welcome to help." The glint of metal caught his eye, but it was only a dull kitchen knife—not quite what he was looking for.

"My sister is out _there!" _She pointed up at the sky.

"Yeah, well, you'll find answers in the trash more often than the stars." He stood up straight, arching his sore back before stripping off his overcoat. It was already dirtied to hell, but the heat was starting to get to him. "Hold this for me, sweetheart." He tossed her the coat, and Ayahe swatted it down to the ground.

"Why would a professional assassin throw their weapon away so carelessly?" she snapped.

He shrugged. "People panic."

What he was thinking, but _didnt _want to say, was that the Twi'lek's sister was almost certainly the assassin in question—and after the scene she had made at the embassy, he could easily see her being so careless as to leave the murder weapon behind when she fled. Nara Jendri had been stabbed with a large blade, too big to be a knife. The Tarisian police hadn't reported seeing a blade on the Sith when they had nearly caught her boarding her ship in the middle of a public park, which meant she had tossed it after fleeing the embassy.

"We have been looking _all morning,"_ she sighed in exasperation.

_He_ had been looking all morning. _She_ had followed him, complaining the whole time. The only reason he tolerated her was that she might prove useful in finding the Sith. He was still trying to wrap his head around their bizarre family situation, as well as deciding how much he should divulge to the Mandalorian investigators.

Technically he was supposed to cooperate with them, but they were in no hurry to share what _they_ knew, whatever that might be. They still had the crime scene on lock down, and he hadn't been able to get an audience with Koras Jendri—Nara's young brother—since the day before.

So, it was either sit on his laurels in the hotel room being paid for with taxpayer credits, or root around in refuse for a lead he didn't seriously expect to find. At least, not until he nearly sliced his hand open on a straight metal blade laid lengthwise across the bottom of the bin.

"One man's trash," he said, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and using it to delicately lift the weapon by its reddened blade. The sword was surprisingly light, and he was able to hold it aloft with one hand once the garbage clinging to it fell away.

"Is that—" Ayahe started, swallowing when she saw the blood that caked it from the tip to the halfway point—and strangely, to the handle of the blade as well. Between those two spots, it was clean.

"Sure looks like it." Sword in hand, he clambered down from the bin, landing on the ground just in time to hear the stomp of boots and the clatter of weapons coming from both ends of the alley. Mandalorian troopers, some armored and some not, charging at him with rifles and electrically-charged force pikes in hand. He held his arms high, and Ayahe quickly picked up on the fact that she should do the same. One of the uniformed Mandalorians grabbed the sword from him with gloved hands, while the others established a circle around the stunned pair.

"There a problem?" Markus said.

"No one could find you on embassy grounds." A young man—a boy, really—parted the crowd of guards and entered the circle. He had short blonde hair, as neatly kept as his bright blue military uniform. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back in a stance meant to evoke the image of a man who feared nothing. The boy's posturing would have looked ridiculous, were he not heir to one of Mandalore's wealthiest clans.

"What are you doing digging among Taris' many trash heaps?" A guard held the blade out toward him, and he eyed the bloodied weapon with a detached thoughtfulness that was broken by the briefest flicker of sorrow and anger.

"My job." Markus nodded at the sword and carefully lowered his hands. "By the looks if it, thats the murder weapon."

Koras waved a man from the group behind him, who pulled a clear evidence bag from the sack hung at his side and held it open for the other guard.

"And you didnt think to tell me?" Koras snapped.

Markus had half a mind to lay into the brat—guards be damned—but he reminded himself that he had just lost his sister. That was liable to make anyone hotheaded.

"I only just found it, your highness. Calling you was my next step."

As the guard holding the sword wrapped his gloved fingers around the hilt to slide it into the bag, he yelped in pain and collapsed like someone had just shot him in the gut as the weapon clattered to the ground.

"Careful!" shouted Koras.

A few of the guards rushed over to help their fallen comrade to his feet. The sword's hilt, once a smooth surface of dark gray, was now ringed by gleaming barbs, like swords in miniature. Were it not for the man's protective handwear, he would have earned some nasty cuts along with whatever had sent him to the ground.

"Sorry, sir. It... shocked me." Another man stepped forward, this time opting to pick the weapon up by the flat of the blade. As he did so, Ayahe rushed forward.

"There was blood on the hilt!" A few Mandalorians stepped between her and the careful attempt to bag the murder weapon, forcing her to stop. "Someone else triggered the trap first before we found it."

Koras looked from her to Markus. "Who is this woman?"

That wasn't something he had considered how to explain. If the Mandalorians knew that she was the suspect's sister, there was no telling what they would do with her. Republic citizenship didnt mean much these days, and his bosses would be more than happy to hand her over if it meant placating the irate leadership of a planet on the verge of _joining _the fragile Republic.

"A consultant," Markus said. He had nearly gone with _'assistant', _but that cover story wouldn't pass muster if they did any checking into her background.

Koras didnt ask for further details, and instead turned back to Ayahe.

"Are you suggesting someone found it here before you did?"

Her eyes flickered over to Markus, and he shook his head just slightly enough that Koras didnt notice. Markus knew where she was going with her line of thought, but it wasn't one she could risk trying to drag the Mandalorian princeling down.

"I... don't know," she said after a moment's thought. Koras frowned, and motioned for his men to take the weapon from the alley. "But you should test the blood! Maybe someone _saw _the assassin, or fought with them."

It was as vague as a suggestion could get, and despite himself Markus jumped into the conversation to help her along.

"It's a lead," he said to Koras. "We don't know where they'll take us. We just follow them." Like Markus, the boy was desperate for any means of finding his sister's murderer. If dangling one in front of him meant the Mandalorians would give the evidence a closer look, he wasn't above a little manipulation.

"_I_ will follow your lead," Koras corrected him. "Your work is done."

"Done?" Markus smiled uneasily. "The culprit is still out there, your highness."

"And I will _find_ the Sith. You will go back to Coruscant, and tell your superiors that Mandalore will not suffer further interference in our affairs."

The prince had been upset the day before, angry and uncooperative, but this was different. His anger still simmered just below the surface, but it was well-contained beneath a stony facade that told Markus there would be no budging him on this. Something had changed.

"I'm here to help, not interfere." Markus gestured in the direction the sword had been taken. "Your sister believed in the Republic. She would have wanted us to work together."

Koras' anger boiled over more quickly than Markus could process the misstep he had just made.

"Don't tell me what Nara would have wanted!" He shoved through his guards, putting him face-to-face with Markus—though the Mandalorian was a good foot shorter. "Republic bodyguards couldn't protect her, and Republic investigators won't find her killer. _I_ will."

Markus held back a resigned sigh as his shoulders slumped.

"If that's your decision."

Koras didn't even bother confirming what he had just made very clear, and instead spun about on his heels to leave the man and Twi'lek behind. Before he could go, the latter shot forward, nearly crashing into his two guards.

"Wait!" She slid right into the crossed force pikes of the two men, who eyed her carefully as she fumbled for the datapad on her belt. Markus knew what she was about to do. It was stupid, and counterproductive, but there was no time to tell her any of that.

"I am not a consultant for Republic police." She held the computer out to the prince, and one of the guards took it in hand before holding it up for him. Koras' impatient expression changed to one of surprise and confusion.

"That's Nara's murderer." He snatched the tablet and eyed it more closely. "What is this?"

Markus couldn't see what she was showing him, but had to assume it _wasn't_ the baby picture she had shown him the day before. Pinning a random pureblood Sith infant as his sister's murderer would have been quite a leap in logic, even for the grief-stricken prince.

"My mother's murderer," said Ayahe.

Now, it was Markus' turn to be surprised. He had fully expected her to tell the same story she had told him—one he had checked out, and confirmed to be true. Clearly, she had a different version of events in mind for the Mandalorians. Ayahe slowly reached past the guards still blocking her and tapped a button on the datapad, likely to show another picture.

"She took Sunon in, gave her a home, and a family. But like all Sith, she wanted power—power she could not get from the Force."

"She can't use the Force?" Koras looked up from the datapad, and Markus could tell his interest was piqued. "Are you saying she's not with the Sith Empire?"

Ayahe shook her head. "Her mother was. She abandoned Sunon as a baby. Even then, she could tell."

"When did you last see her?" he asked.

The Twi'lek told Koras the whole sordid story, though she was careful to leave out the fact that Maliss' killers were Mandalorian. Markus wasn't quite sure why she danced around that detail, and he had to assume that she was simply wary of giving the boy any more details than he needed to garner his interest. If she _did _ever need to divulge that tidbit, she could always feign being a clumsy storyteller who had stumbled over one facet of a painful memory.

The other major difference in her second telling was how much venom she flung at Sunon every time she mentioned her. 'Sister' was never used. Sunon was 'the Sith', 'that girl', and any number of nasty epithets. By the time she was done, Koras had bought her fake hatred hook, line, and sinker. If _this _Ayahe was to be believed, Sunon was a violent thug who had carelessly let her guardian follow her into a trap the Sith should have seen coming.

"Two years." Koras stared down at the picture of his sister's accused killer. "And you don't know what she has been doing since then?"

It was the same question Markus had asked her yesterday. This time, she was ready for it.

"I know how she thinks!" Ayahe gestured at the Republic detective. "That is why he brought me with him today. If anyone can find her, I can."

Koras' gaze snapped to Markus and his brow furrowed angrily.

"You were going to keep this from me?"

It took all of his effort to hold back the reflexive roll of his eyes. He had been kicked off the case, and the kid was _still _playing the part of a little tyrant.

"Like I said, your _highness." _He allowed the slightest bit of sarcasm to seep into the title. "You were hard to get ahold of. I wasnt keep anything a secret."

Koras considered the datapad a moment more before handing it to the guard, who handed it back to Ayahe.

"I believe you, detective." He turned to Markus and smoothed out his tunic. "But justice will not be obtained by bureaucrats."

Markus did push his share of paperwork, but that was a bit harsh.

"Then we'll get out of your hair." He turned to leave, waving Ayahe along with him, but a quick word from Koras stopped them both.

"Not you!" He pointed at Ayahe. "You want justice, do you not?"

She nodded uneasily, and Koras parted his bodyguards, striding towards her and clasping her hand in both of his own before giving it a firm shake.

"Then until that is accomplished, we are partners."


	8. Storming The Castle

Sunon found Gamin in the cavern, well away from the Meerians readying themselves for battle. He sat among some junked out cruisers, back propped up against one as he examined the blaster he had been given. She couldn't shake the image of a child playing with a toy gun.

"Stop hiding," she said. He leapt to his feet and glared at her.

"I'm not hiding. I'm... mentally preparing."

He may have _thought _that, but it was a lie. What he was doing was working himself up into a frenzy thinking about all the people he hadn't even killed yet. That was his mistake—you didnt have to think about killing someone to do it. All you had to do was take aim, then squeeze the trigger.

"Come here." She waved him into an open area away from the wrecks, then grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around so that he was facing the cruisers.

"See that plate?" She pointed at a metal plate about as tall as Gamin and just as wide. "Shoot it."

He took aim and squeezed one eye shut before stopping and glancing back at her. "It won't ricochet?"

"It's Durasteel alloy. It'll absorb small-arms fire."

Taking aim again, he held his blaster out with a trembling arm and quaking shoulder. Five excruciatingly long seconds later, he squeezed the trigger and a blaster bolt struck the cavern wall a hundred feet past the plate.

"What'd I just say?"

He glared at her. "Just saying _'do it' _doesnt make me an expert shot. I've never used a blaster before." Taking careful aim—though with no less trembling—he squeezed off another shot that veered far off into the blackness of the cave.

"No shit," Sunon mused. "I've seen how you handle trouble."

Gamin looked at her curiously and she waved a hand in front of his face.

"T-take me to the nearest starport!" she stammered, mocking his attempt to use the Force to push on her mind when they had first boarded the Mantis.

"If you were anyone else, I'd apologize for doing that."

She clicked her tongue dismissively. "Like you didnt use the same trick to seduce that Mandalorian ambassador."

"I've _never _done that," he snapped. Fuming silently, he kept his arm rigid and tried shooting again. He hit the dirt below the plate. Closer, but still lousy. Sunon grabbed the blaster, wrapping her hand around his as she pressed herself to his back.

"Aim," she said into his ear. He obeyed, though his hand was shaking even more than before and he took a short step away from her, making her attempts to correct his aim difficult.

"Will you stay still?" She wrapped her other hand around his chest and pulled him roughly back towards her. His heart was going a mile a minute—nerves before the coming battle. She couldn't imagine how he would handle actually being shot at.

"Your shoulder aims. Your arm supports the blaster." She pivoted his entire arm up to the target, keeping him from succumbing to the urge to tighten his bicep and draw the gun closer. "Your finger squeezes." She slipped her finger over his and forced him to pull the trigger, firing a bolt that struck the durasteel plate dead center. Gamin gasped in delighted surprise, both of them watching as the spot he had shot glowed bright red and then gradually faded.

"There, you did it." Her voice was flat, with none of the enthusiasm a teacher should have. "Now, it's a person." She squeezed the trigger twice, and two more blaster bolts found their mark. "See? Now they're dead."

Sunon peered around to look at his face. "Got it?"

He swallowed and nodded. "Yeah."

"Good." She stepped back and waited until he fired again, this time with no aid. His shot didnt quite hit center, but it at least struck the hunk of metal he was aiming for. Gamin beamed proudly and looked to Sunon, but she simply crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto one foot.

"You winged it. If that was a bad guy with a gun, he'd have shot you right after you clipped him."

Gamin blew air out through his lips and spun the pistol about his trigger finger in an elegant flourish that ended when it slipped free of his hand, clattering across the ground as he chased after it.

"If you shoot me during the battle," Sunon said slowly. "I'm taking you with me before I bleed out."

Gamin managed to catch his weapon before it rolled into a ravine cutting through the cavern, then holstered it with none of the lavish trickery he had attempted the first time.

"I don't need a blaster," he said. "I have _Jedi _training."

"Oh?" Sunon raised an eyebrow. "To swing your lightsaber around?" She gestured at his empty hands, though she also knew he had left the Order far too early to receive any lightsaber training. In his clumsy hands, the fabled weapon of the Jedi would have been far bigger a liability than an asset.

"We received other training, you know. Hand-to-hand combat."

Her curled lip turned up into a slight smirk. "Show me."

"Show you?" He took a step away from her.

"Obviously the Jedi didnt teach you to mess with minds." She remembered how feeble his attempt to push on hers was. "So show me what they _did _teach you."

Gamin nearly took another step back before puffing out his chest and rising to the challenge.

"I've been in a few scraps, you know. You're not asking for a little tap."

"Fine. Then tap this." She tapped a finger on her cheek. Gamin's face contorted in barely-contained laughter, and a snort escaped his nostrils.

"What?" she demanded.

He shook his head and waved his hand at her. "You're not up on Core World slang, are you?"

She felt her crimson skin flush a shade redder. "I meant _punch _me!"

"Yeah, yeah. I know what you meant." His amusement subsided and he eyed her thoughtfully. "I don't like to hit women, even ones that don't _look _like women."

His words brought Sunon a step closer to _her _hitting _him, _but Gamin continued talking before she could throw a retort his way.

"So! I'll make a counter-proposal."

"What?" she asked.

Gamin held his arms out to his sides.

"During my time on Tython, I learned the ancient Jedi secret to escaping from any submission hold ever envisioned." His claim sounded absurd, but he said the words with absolute conviction. "If I can escape in under thirty seconds, you'll give Ibayo a _real_ apology when we find her."

_If _they found her, Sunon silently corrected him. She barely even considered the terms before accepting. She would win easily, after all.

"And if I win?"

"I'll do anything you want."

"As soon as we're off this planet, were never seeing each other again. What good does an IOU from _you_ do me?"

His expression turned downcast. Clearly he hadn't expected—or at least hadn't thought about—what they would do if they lived through the coming battle. Why he was disappointed about not being able to hitch a ride with _her, _she had no idea. Sunon had made no attempt to serve as pleasant company.

"Fine." Sunon relented, walking over to him and putting him in a standing chokehold just tight enough that he couldn't hope to slip out, but loose enough that he could still breath and speak. Once Sunon had him held firmly in the crook of her elbow Gamin let his arms drop, but otherwise did nothing. Eight seconds ticked by, and he made no attempt to escape.

"Well?" Sunon said. "Gonna do something?"

"Nah." He sounded casual, and she couldn't decide if it was supreme confidence or carefree resignation. "Just enjoying this."

"_Enjoying _it?" She frowned and tightened her hold enough that she could feel his heartbeat pounding in his neck. In a few moments he would be turning as red as the Sith herself. "How's that feel?"

"Soft," he croaked out.

"Soft?" She contemplated the scene in confusion, until finally her eyes turned down to her breasts pressed against his back, separated only by the thin shirts the two of them wore. She gasped in disgust and released Gamon, throwing him forward where he struggled to stay standing.

"Twenty three seconds!" he exclaimed through panting breaths, pumping his fists in the air. "I win, you lose."

Sunon crossed one arm over her chest and pointed at him with the other. "You cheated!"

Gamin smirked. "I wouldn't expect a bounty hunter to whine about _cheating _in a fight."

He was right, but that fact only pissed her off _more._ Unable to muster a convincing argument, she stammered for something to say before pointing at the metal plate he had been firing at a short time ago.

"Practice your shooting!" Her voice cracked halfway through the last word, and she spun about and stormed off in humiliated frustration. Gamin didnt say anything as she left, but once she had walked out of sight she heard the _click_ of a trigger in the distance and the wail of blaster fire.

* * *

There are worse places to awaken than the luxurious apartment Ibayo found herself in. After being shot and entering into a self-induced vegetative state, she had been only vaguely aware of what transpired around her. Shouts, a flurry of movements, and then she was thrown into a darkness more total than the one she had willingly entered.

Not death—anaesthesia. When the drugs wore off she shot up in bed, grimacing in pain as she felt at her cloth-wrapped chest. Her robe was draped over a chair on the other side of the opulent room, the ragged brown fabric contrasting sharply with the intricate blue and gold designs adorning every stitched couch and woven rug.

Walking over to retrieve the only belonging she had in the world, she saw a plate of food set on a table beside the chair, piled high with succulent fruits and pastries that were certainly _not _from Bandomeer.

She gave only a moment's thought to the possibility of poison or drugs. If they had wanted to slip something into her, they would have done so while she was sleeping. Ibayo grabbed a handful of flaky baked dough speckled with chocolate and devoured it as she walked around the room.

She didnt know how long she had been out, but did she did know that she was _starving. _The dull ache in her gut and the sharper one in her chest were the only things she _did _know for sure at that point. What had become of the Pureblood and Gamin Yar, how she had ended up here, or where _here _was... that was a mystery to be solved.

A floor-length window running along one wall gave a view out onto the rocky gray landscape surrounding the city of Bandor. Stepping closer, she could see the colorful slums far below, where the Meerians made their homes. It was hard to make out individual shacks through the haze and sheer distance—she must have been half a mile up. Looking down even further, she noticed a thick wall curving around the tower she was in. Between those two structures was a sea of green with more buildings far larger and better constructed than the ones in the slums outside.

She was in Czerka's planetary headquarters. That was one question answered, but it only made her remaining ones even harder to answer. If her companions—it felt odd to call them that—had been captured as well, what had allowed her to earn a luxury apartment as a prison instead of the cramped confines of a force cell? Did Czerka not realize that Ibayo was the most dangerous of the trio? Had they assumed she was a victim of the Sith and her human friend?

Whatever the case, she would find out soon. Ibayo made for the single door leading out of the room, but as soon as she pressed the door's control panel, the control screen disappeared and was replaced with a video feed showing a corpulent man seated at a desk, his brow furrowed intensely as he typed away at a computer terminal. After a few moments his eyes flickered over to the camera, and he jerked upright in surprise.

"You're awake!" Though her Force sight did not allow the Miraluka to pick out fine facial expressions through the small viewscreen, she could sense the excitement in his voice. "Do you know where you are?"

"I looked out the window," Ibayo responded flatly. "I am thankful for the accommodations, but I must be going." She tried to use the Force to slide the door open manually, but the harsh metal sound of the locking mechanism catching told her any exit would require more than a flick of the wrist.

"Up-up!" The man tutted, leaning in towards the viewscreen. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Ibayo abandoned her attempt to the door open—for the moment, anyway—and stepped back in front of the control panel.

"You _are _a prisoner. Let me make that clear from the start." Despite the news he was giving her, he kept his polite tone. "But before we talk further, I should introduce myself. I am Renard Haut, managing director for Czerka Mining Subsidiary's operations along the Braxant Run." He gave a slight bow, only stopping so that his head would not hit the desk in front of him.

"I am thankful for whatever part you played in saving my life, Mr. Haut. But I will not be held with a locked door."

"Oh, no. I wouldn't expect a Jedi to be stymied by a few inches of steel." He gave her a sheepish grin, as if he were ready to spring some secret on her but felt guilty about doing so.

"I am not a Jedi."

"Former Jedi," Haut corrected himself. "I'm sure it's a very interesting story. I hope you can tell it to me before you're taken off my hands."

It sounded as if he knew who she was—or at least that she was wanted in connection for a woman's murder. Ibayo was tempted to probe further, but didnt want to risk revealing more until _she_ knew exactly what the man before her knew.

"What will stop me from simply breaking down this door?" Ibayo motioned to the exit.

"Nothing," Haut said. "But the moment you leave, I would be forced to detonate the explosives set three floors below yours. I'd rather _not _reduce my own living quarters to molten slag, so I hope you'll stay put."

Ibayo had expected guards, or force fields—not a scorched earth strategy contained within a corporate skyscraper.

"Extreme measures," Haut sighed. "The worst fugitives we have to contend with are some rowdy natives who decide it'd be good fun to take potshots at our engineers. A rogue Jedi who assassinated a Mandalorian ambassador... that isn't the sort of individual we built holding cells for."

"But you expect to be able to transport me?"

"Not Czerka," he corrected her. "I have outside contractors on their way to take you to Taris. Where, I assume, you will receive a fair trial."

Ibayo doubted that last part very much. She would face a rigged court and a firing squad. Facing justice for her misdeeds was not something she feared—or even sought to avoid—but she refused to face _false _justice. That felt as if she were robbing the people she had wronged of _real _justice, and denying the galaxy the toil of a repentant women.

"Mandalorian contractors, I assume?" If so, she had to wonder if she would even make it to Mandalore alive.

"Yes." Haut sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And a Kaleesh. Do you know of them? Nasty looking things."

Ibayo's heart skipped a beat, and she had to struggle to keep her voice steady.

"They are not a common people, but I knew one long ago. Did he tell you his name?"

"He _was _male," Haut said, mildly surprised at her lucky guess in gender. Though when it came to bounty hunters, most _were _men. "I can't say I got a name. Not even a face, really. The thing wore a mask made of _bone._" He grimaced and motioned up and down his face with his open hand.

Ibayo stepped closer to the viewscreen and leaned in close.

"If you are here when that being comes to Bandomeer, he will _kill _you." Haut's muscles tensed and he jerked back in his chair, but then quickly relaxed.

"My men warned me about this," he said disapprovingly. "Jedi mind tricks, is it?"

"It is not tricks," she said firmly. "If you want to live, you will release me."

As she spoke the man babbled incoherently and waved his hands at her.

"Enough of this sorcery! I thought we had established a professional repertoire, you and I." The blustering executive sounded genuinely offended. "But if you can't be civil, you'll just have to wait there without the benefit of my company." With that he cut off the feed, leaving Ibayo face-to-face locked door controls she no longer had any desire to fiddle with.

In truth, she _had _been tempted to push on the man's mind, to make him more amenable to her very real warnings. It wasn't the risk of failure that had stopped her—it was the worry of what further temptations success would bring her.

As she sat down on the bed and looked out at the sky outside—a formless void that seemed ready to birth any number of terrible storms—she could not help but wonder if she had chosen wrong.

* * *

Men will not lay down their lives for credits alone.

They may fight for credits, and ultimately die for them, but any man who picks up a rifle in exchange for money is a mercenary. When the going gets tough, they will crumple like paper Rancors.

True armies are built around ideas—freedom, revenge, security, any number of things that grip mens hearts and bind them together. The simpler the idea, the stronger the drive of those upholding it.

But a leader can simply _wear _an idea like he would an outfit. He must embody it body and soul, to serve as an unwavering rock for others to rally around. Tralus had started _his_ journey with one driving need—to go home.

His family's clan had been cast off Mandalore when his father had rebelled against the Sith's Empire's puppet government, but Tralus himself had been forced to leave years earlier. He had been eleven years old, shut in his room with his toy ships. Levitating them with the Force brought him endless joy, but he wasn't yet old enough to understand the significance of his abilities.

Nor did he understand why his father had hit him when he saw the floating star cruisers. He had slapped Tralus before, but that was the first time he had struck him like a man would another man. What followed was a blur of shouting and shaking, in which he had told Tralus never to do that in front of anyone again. The next day, Tralus was put on a shuttle and spirited to an outpost belonging to his family in a far corner of the Outer Rim.

It took him until his father's death to let go of his anger towards the man, and then he finally understood why his father had done what he did. If Clan Varad's enemies had discovered Tralus' force sensitivity, they would have revealed it to the Sith, and Tralus would have been forced into the Sith Academy on Korriban. His father had sent him away to keep that from happening. What Tralus never figured out was why his father had not wanted him to learn the ways of the Sith. Did he not want his son to become a stranger to Mandalore? A Sith, instead of a Mandalorian? Or was he simply afraid that his son would have been eaten alive by the academy and its cut-throat philosophy?

In either case, his father had chosen poorly. No one—least of all his father—realized how strong Tralus was. He would not have failed at the academy, nor would he have let them strip him of his identity and heritage. Had he become a Lord of the Empire, he could have _helped _his clan from the inside instead of being sent across the galaxy while it was torn to pieces.

His father's doomed uprising had left Clan Varad destitute. Everything within Sith space was divided among the clans loyal to the Empire, leaving Tralus to inherit what few assets were scattered around neutral space. For a time he had hated the Empire, and dreamt of revenge against those who had enslaved Mandalore. Then, as his own power grew and a plan began to form in his mind, his hatred turned to understanding.

The sin that had led Mandalore to fall prey to the Empire's domination was not the Sith's manipulation—it was Mandalore's own weakness. If it had not been the Sith who preyed on them, it would have been the Hutts, or the Republic.

The Sith said it best—from passion we gain strength. Through strength, we gain power. Through power, we gain victory. Through victory, our chains are he would find himself murmuring the Sith creed during meditative sessions like the one he sat in now. It cut right through all the nonsense and noise to reveal one simple principle:

If Mandalore was to survive, it must become _strong._

"Incoming message."

The electronic voice broke Tralus from his meditative trance, and only then did he realize how far his mind had wandered. With no formal tutoring in the Force, all of his energy was focused on those practices that would yield immediate results, and power he could put to use.

He was not so myopic as to believe that there were no deeper mysteries to explore—he simply didnt have the time to plumb their depths. Nor did he have time for meditation, which he detested. Just sitting there, not doing, not thinking, simply being. How could someone exist if they did not act? That was death, not life.

The only reason he devoted effort to the practice of centering his mind was to train in the battle meditation he used to strengthen his forces when they fought. The chain of command was only as strong as its weakest link, and he would _not _be that link.

"Who is it?" he said.

"Crale Varad," came the ship AI's response. Though Tralus had not been involved in the design of the AI that controlled his fleet's automated functions, he had allowed himself to give it one personal touch—a pleasantly feminine voice. Mercenary companies were generally skewed heavily to the male side, and many of the men seemed to appreciate 'her' presence within the ships' circuitry.

Tralus rose from his kneeling position, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings once again. He was on the bridge of the _Nemesis, _among the seventeen officers who kept things running when they were between operations. With their latest contract completed, there was nothing left to do but sit in deep space and wait. Not for another contract, though—they were done being mercenaries. Though few, except for Tralus, knew that yet.

"Put him through."

Crale's craggy face appeared as a huge hologram projected in front of the center viewport window, every scar and pockmark displayed in grotesque detail.

"We got a lead," Crale said. He angled the camera sideways, giving a brief glimpse of the assassin behind him so that Tralus knew what was said would be heard by both of them. It was the first time Tralus had caught a glimpse of the assassin's face. He had known that he was a Kaleesh, but had never seen one in real life before—or even as a hologram.

With rust-colored skin and upturned snouts set into long, angular faces, they might have been mistaken for particularly ugly Sith were it not for the twin tusks jutting out of their jaw bone. The Kaleesh had a tradition of wearing masks, often ones carved out of the bones of their own ancestors. One look at the assassin's ghastly visage had him willing to let such a grotesque habit slide.

"A lead on the Sith?"

"On this one's prize." He pointed a thumb back at the assassin. "Probably the Sith, too. Czerka says there were three of 'em, just like on Taris."

"Czerka?" Tralus raised an eyebrow curiously. He was no stranger to the intergalactic corporation, but he couldn't imagine how they fit into this.

"Remember Bandomeer?" Crale said. Czerka had hired Tralus to put down a minor uprising in the planet's capital city, a task he had relegated to his lieutenant. "Czerka captured the hermit, says she was wounded somehow. They called _me _because they liked how we handled that tussle with the natives."

"And they want you to transport her to Republic space?"

Crale nodded.

This was a fortunate turn of events indeed, but the opportunity forced a choice on Tralus. If he fulfilled the contract Czerka had given Crale, he would be handing over a powerful bargaining chip to the Republic that they could use to placate Clan Jendri. On the other hand, betraying Czerka would ruin his reputation as a reliable contractor and force him to move up his timetable.

But opportunities were _meant _to be seized—and fortune favors the bold.

"I don't think she will make it to Republic space," Tralus said. "In fact, I think she will escape Czerka custody in a _very _violent fashion."

Crale screwed up in his face in exasperated confusion. "You _don't _want to hand those three over to the Jendri kid?"

"For what purpose? So that his clan's fleets can return to Mandalore?" Tralus shook his head. It was a temptingly clever play to bring the boy over to his side, but far too risky at this late a stage in the game. "No, I want them chasing a ghost."

Crale cracked a gruesome grin, looking more like a shark bearing its teeth than a man making his pleasure known.

"Then we'll give 'em two ghosts to chase."

With a nod of acknowledgement from Tralus he ended the call. The Jedi hermit would die too, of course, but Crale could not say as much in front of the Kaleesh—nor did Tralus need to correct him. The Sith would die, her companions would die, the Kaleesh would die, and the Czerka executive who had given them the contract would die as well, his death made to look like the work of a rampaging Sith.

Long ago, Tralus had been bothered by killing. When it had ceased to bother him, the fact that he was so inured to death began to bother him. Now, he was able to slip back into meditation seconds after resuming his kneeling position on the bridge of his flagship.

* * *

Long before ships had taken into the stars—or even flown through the sky—numberless peoples the galaxy over had taken refuge inside castles instead of space stations. Bandor's inner city was a throwback to that time long past, a shining corporate jewel nestled safely inside the slums and shacks that surrounded it. Separating the two worlds was a sloped wall fifty feet high, with watch towers and turret emplacements set atop in case the sheer height was not deterrent enough.

Past the walls lay a single massive citadel of dark metal, shooting up so far that it seemed to melt right into Bandomeer's dreary sky. There were other, much smaller buildings built up around the main structure, but they were hardly visible past the high walls surrounding the city. Too steep to climb and too thick to blast a hole in, the only way in was through one of the many gates ringing the walled city. Sunon had mulled over any number of options on how to breach them, but eventually decided that it would be no easier than breaching the walls.

Still, it was the only way in, and that left them with one method of entry—to ask nicely.

"This is giving _me _the creeps," Gamin said. His eyes darted left and right to the pale Meerians clambering from shack to shack on either side of them.

Sunon gave Gamin a sharp 'shush' and continued walking towards the doors built into the wall ahead of them. She and Gamin were both shackled—her with the broken Force dampeners Ibayo had broken out of. Behind them walked Zola and two of his followers, all three of whom had their blasters trained on the two 'prisoners'. Though they were the only ones on the ground, the other Meerians were making no attempt to hide their numbers. Sunon had decided such a thing to be unfeasible, and so had decided to mask their _purpose _instead of their presence.

"Halt!" Came a man's voice projected from loudspeakers above the doors. They were close enough now that she could see the men in the towers above peering down at them, rifles at the ready. According to Zola, the walls were always guarded, but slightly less so for the eight hours a day deemed the 'night' shift. The dark planet had day & night cycles far longer than the twenty-four hour standard, but for the sanity of their workers Czerka had set up a timetable closely mirroring that of most human-habitable worlds.

For Sunon, making their attack during that eight hour window also meant that those people who lived in the compound would be in their company apartments fast asleep, and not wandering the roadways. She wasn't worried about their safety, but she _was_ concerned about prying eyes.

As Zola's group continued to walk towards the gates, a shot rang out and struck the ground near the Meerian. It hadn't come from one of the guards, but from his own people.

Chaos broke out. The guards in the towers fired reflexively at the source of the attack, shredding cheap walls and driving the Meerians back into any hiding place they could find. Zola yelled at his two followers and waved for the gates, then jabbed the barrel of his rifle into Gamin, driving the group towards safety.

"Sanctuary!" The Meerian leader shouted upward. "I ask for sanctuary!" He shoved past the other four and banged on the door with a balled up fist, shouting his practiced plea over and over. More shots came from every dark corner of the street behind them, striking the walls and dirt. Czerka stopped returning fire, and for a few moments, nothing happened. Then the doors creaked open, and the five fugitives fell inside before the creeping blaster fire could find them.

The doors slammed closed behind them, shutting the group in a sealed alcove that looked similar to an airlock, with two windows running along either wall. Four soldiers—clad from head to toe in green & yellow armor—and one uniformed officer stood at the other end of the hall, rifles pointed at the newcomers. There were more security personnel in the rooms on either side of the hall, though they remained seated at their monitoring terminals.

"Guns down!" shouted the Czerka officer. Zola and his two men did as asked, tossing their weapons to the floor and raising their hands.

"Facial scan on the Sith," the officer said, pointing at Sunon. One of the troopers let his rifle drop to his side where it hung by its sling, then fumbled for the datapad on his belt. With uncertain movements he shuffled over to Sunon and held the datapad in front of her eyes, and a white beam of light ran up and down her face. The trooper was still shaking like a leaf. No matter how expensive their armor and well-fortified their compound, these were security guards. She wondered if any had seen a real fight—let alone a real battle—in their entire lives.

Another soldier approached to inspect Sunon's bulky shackles, but he was stopped by a quick move from Zola.

"Force cuffs," Zola said. "Dangerous woman. Don't touch." The man backed away slowly, and Sunon could tell that the facial scan had finished when the first trooper let out a surprised gasp.

"Oh shi—" he muttered, before cutting himself short and announcing a crisp. "Sir!"

With that he strode back to his commander, no less uneasy but with even more haste. The officer took one look at the datapad and nodded in surprise.

"Huh," he said simply. Sunon had to admit some dissatisfaction with the man's muted reaction. She had expected far more from someone being handed one of the most wanted criminals in the Inner Rim.

The trooper went to scan Zola, but the officer stopped him with a sharp _'tut.'_

"I already know this one." His voice dripped with disdain. Apparently Zola was a known figure as the leader of Bandomeer's resistance. "What do you want, Zolamassis?"

"Sanctuary!" the old Meerian said desperately, his raised arms shaking with exhaustion. They had deliberately left Zola's automatic translator behind. The less they could be asked, the less they would be forced to answer—and the easier it would be to get where they needed to go.

"You take." He gestured at Sunon and Gamin, then pointed up at the ceiling—and the sky past it. "Give credits. I leave."

The officer cracked a wry grin and looked to the men under his command. No doubt they had confused expressions under their opaque faceplates.

"Zolamassis here has been riling up the natives for years," he explained. "It seems the promise of a quick payday has robbed him of his revolutionary idealism."

The man seemed to think of Zola and his movement as a nuisance at best, and a joke at worst. It wasn't a total surprise—Sunon had counted on that lack of caution to get them entry into Czerka's fortress. Soon, he would realize just how big a mistake he had made—but not yet.

"Take them." The officer pointed at Sunon and Gamin, and the troopers rushed forward to grab their bound arms. As they did so, Zola and his two followers picked their guns up from the ground and pointed them at the soldiers.

"Credits!" Zola shouted. "Ship!"

"Hey, hey!" The officer moved towards the tangled mess of itchy trigger fingers to disarm the standoff that had formed. "You'll get your credits, you little shit. Put the guns _down."_

The Czerka officer made clear with hand gestures that he wanted their guns back on the ground, and after a few moments the Meerians relented.

"I want speak to boss. Ship. Credits." Zola enunciated each word clearly, both to be understood through his croaking accent and to make clear that any breakdown in negotiations would mean guns being pointed at the Czerka officer and his men again.

"Fine, fine!" The man threw up his hands and waved the group forward. "Watch them _closely," _he told his men. Turning to the door behind the Czerka soldiers, he spoke into the communication panel beside it and ordered the door open. Within moments they were back under the dim light of Bandomeer's distant sun—but this time, on the other side of the wall.

What met them was nothing like the drab slums they had just left behind. Czerka's inner city was a gleaming office park of glass and steel, with white stone roads that cut through lush fields of green grass—certainly fake, but real-looking enough to be a welcome sight on the dead world.

While they walked, the officer leading the group spoke quietly into the radio clipped to his chest—most likely to order reinforcements to the post they had just left. Two troopers walked behind Sunon and one on each side, and she could feel the eyes of all four focused on her in particular. They had marked her as the most dangerous of the five they were escorting, though not through any real powers of perception that could pin her as an expert shot or skilled combatant. All they saw was a Sith—one who wielded the Force, they would assume—who cut an imposing figure.

The attention they laid on her meant making her move would be more difficult, but that wasn't a worry yet. She and Gamin wouldn't be breaking free of their unsecured cuffs until they were escorted inside the main building where Czerka monitored the walls surrounding the compound. In there would be the means to throw open every gate, and disable every turret. That was the plan, at least. But the group kept walking, and soon they had veered off onto a side road that cut across the edge of the small city towards a concrete bunker.

"Wait," Zola said. The officer heaved a frustrated sigh, taking a few more steps before finally coming to a stop. "I want speak to boss!" Zola demanded, pointing at the towering spire to their left.

"I'm not putting a _Sith_ in the same room as Mr. Haut." The officer gestured angrily at Sunon and Gamin. "These two are going in holding cells, and _then_ you'll get your credits."

"Ah..." Zola groaned and looked around uneasily until his eyes connected with Sunon's.

All five of them needed to get into the main building. The entire plan depended on them fighting their way to the security controls once inside. Unfortunately, the one man who could get them easy entry was getting less patient with each second that passed. The outer gate had been opened for them. For the next door, they would have to go with the battering ram.

Sunon lifted her hands up and then threw them downward, tossing her cuffs to the ground. The moment Zola saw what she was doing, he and his men rushed three of the troopers, grabbing the pistols from the surprised mens' holsters. Blaster fire rang out, but Sunon didnt wait to see who had managed to get the first shots off. She was already barrelling towards the Czerka officer, whose shocked expression grrw terrified when he caught a glimpse of the knife being thrust towards his gut. She stabbed him over and over, moving forward to keep him off balance even as she delivered fatal wound after fatal wound.

A blaster bolt in the back stopped her short, making her stumble forward and fall onto her knees as her opponent slumped dead in front of her. Her breastplate had stopped any serious damage, but she could feel burning heat radiating from the middle of her back outward. Before her shooter had time to get a second shot off she twisted around in a kneeling position, threw her knife backward, then spun to her feet and charged.

The knife bounced harmlessly off of the Czerka trooper's faceplate, but it was enough to put him off balance and give Sunon time to close the gap. Ten feet away from him stood Gamin, his blaster pointed at the trooper and face white as a sheet. In the chaos of the opening volleys only he had failed to take care of a trooper, and she had earned a shot in the back for it.

She tackled the soldier to the ground, and the rifle flew from his hands and spun around on its sling to his backside. As they both fell he pinned it to the ground with his back, grabbing madly for his weapon as the Sith atop him as Sunon lifted his head up by the sides of his helmet. She brought it back down with all the force she could muster, slamming his head against the concrete over and over until she heard a _crack_ and his arms went limp. She didnt know if he was dead, but he was done moving.

With the last danger subdued, her attention snapped to Gamin who still stood in the same spot, his face as white as a sheet and his mouth hung slightly open. His own eyes were focused firmly on the man whose skull she had just cracked open on the sidewalk, and he didn't even take notice of her until her fingers had wrapped around his blaster hand and his neck was caught in the crook of her elbow. They stood in the same stance as when she had shown him how to shoot, although this time Gamin was far from an eager participant.

"What are you doing?" he exclaimed, trying to keep the Sith who had him in a chokehold from pointing his blaster at the man on the ground.

"You're going to _shoot _him," she hissed. Sunon was much stronger than him, but she was trying to actually aim—all Gamin had to do was yank the gun around this way and that, making it impossible to fire off a shot that wasn't liable to hit one of them in the face.

"Get off of me, you psycho!" He dug his heels into the ground and shoved backwards, sending the pair staggering away from the incapacitated trooper. Sunon pulled her choking arm tighter, cutting off his windpipe in an attempt to sap his strength. A few more seconds and she would have had him, but a scream drew her attention to a structure a few hundred feet away. A woman in a formal suit stood just outside the entryway to the office building, staring in horror at the bodies Sunon and her companions had just created.

The Sith cursed her anger. She had known that this place wasn't a ghost town, and that any commotion they created outside was liable to draw attention. Gamin's cowardice had gotten her sidetracked. She threw the man in her arms to the ground and levelled the blaster at the woman. A rifle would have been better at that distance, but her target was running back for the door she had just come through—straight _away _from Sunon, making the shot a simple one.

Just as Sunon squeezed the trigger, Gamin shot up off the ground and shoved her arm. The blaster shot went far off into the sky, hitting nothing but air. Her jaw dropped open, then clenched hard. She grabbed him by the collar and pointed the blaster at his face for the second time in as many days.

She wasn't going to shoot—just give him a good scare—but before she could get a word out, yet another blaster shot rang out, this one nearly as close as her own. Zola stood next to the body of the trooper she had tried to force Gamin to shoot. In the soldier's chest was a smoldering blaster hole.

"Must move!" Zola urged her, pointing at the citadel in the distance. As if on cue, the wail of sirens followed. Whether the woman who had escaped called security or the blaster shots had alerted them, Sunon couldn't say, but it didnt matter. Now that the place was on alert, their remaining lifespan would be measured in minutes if they didnt get those gates open.

Sunon looked back to Gamin and narrowed her eyes.

"If you're going to be a coward, fine." She leaned in closer, nearly touching her forehead to his. "But if you get in my way again, I'll shoot you myself."

Gamin glared up at her, his narrowed eyes saying everything his pursed lips did not. The three Meerians ran past them, and Sunon released Gamin before racing to catch up. The screeching alarms were the only thing filling the streets—Czerka must have told their employees to stay in place during an attack like this. Soon, though, every guard in the compound would be bearing down on them. They needed to reach the spire and its security controls before that happened.

As they rounded the corner of another featureless prefab structure, the grand entrance to that towering citadel came into view. A dozen guards knelt behind hastily-erected barriers, rifles pointed at the approaching group. One of them spotted Sunon and shouted, and a hail of blaster fire followed. She staggered back, taking cover behind the building beside her along with the others.

"Tell me this'll work," Gamin said.

Sunon glanced at her wrist-bound computer, and the radar displayed on it. A green blip was moving towards them, but she soon realized that she didn't need that to track her ship's position—she could hear it.

"Oh, it'll work." She looked up just in time to see her ship flying low overhead, nearly taking off the roof of the building they were using as cover. With a triumphant roar it sailed towards the spire's entrance and the terrified guards beating a hasty retreat back inside the building.

"Run!" She shoved the others forward and took off running. This wasn't like Taris, where she had been forced to have the Mantis make an impromptu landing in unknown territory. Zola had provided her with an exact layout of Bandor's inner city, making it a simple matter to turn the blockade runner into a laser-guided missile—or a battering ram.

The ship slammed into the front of the building when they were still two hundred feet out, but that was more than close enough to get a face full of dust and broken glass. The Mantis flattened barriers, took down the locked doors, and carved out a huge chunk of the front facade. Sunon and the rest ran in just as it came to rest in the ruined grand lobby of Czerka's planetary headquarters. Two thick pillars had caught the ship's wings halfway down the hall, though not before it had sliced right through three pairs of columns before that.

Sunon used her wristband to lower the ramp of the ship, then drew her blaster and slowed to a jog as the Meerians continued to her ship. A pair of guards emerged from the cloudy rubble, coughing and limping, but she sent them back down to the ground with two quick shots. Gamin did nothing, but Sunon had already lost all hope of him actually proving useful—she would settle for him simply staying out of her way.

"We good!" Zola and his two followers staggered down the ramp of the Mantis, all three awkwardly supporting a stationary turret in their arms.

"You know how to use that, right?" Gamin eyed them worryingly as they carried it to the front entrance and began mounting the gun onto a tripod. While the Meerians did that, Sunon boarded her ship and began putting on the armor she had stashed just inside the door the day before. A wave of relief washed over her the moment she slipped on her heavy boots, the first piece of what had become like a second skin to her. The armor was scarred and burned, battered and bruised, but only because _it_ had taken those wounds instead of _her._

Sliding her helmet on, she heard the sound of blaster fire as Zola and his men unleashed on whoever had responded to the distress calls undoubtedly coming from every room in the building. The turret they were manning would buy Sunon time, but only so much—she needed to keep moving.

"We've gotta go." Gamin leaned into the cargo bay from the top corner of the ramp, pulling back slightly when he saw Sunon fully clad in her red & gray armor.

"How do I look?" She picked up two blaster pistols from the floor and holstered them, then tossed Gamin the one she had taken from him. Maybe he'd actually end up using it.

"Scary," he said uneasily. They left the ship and clambered over debris from collapsed decorative columns as they made their way further down the hall. Behind them, the intermittent blaster fire unleashed by Zola had become a continuous roar that was mixed in with the shorter bursts unleashed by the other two Meerians alongside him. Based on the schematics of the building Zola had shown her, the hallway should have run another eighty feet to a circular space of elevators and stairwells that ran up the interior of the structure. Instead, she and Gamin jogged through the cloud of dust kicked up by her ship and came face-to-face with a massive slab of dark metal that blocked the hall.

"Is that a... door?" Gamin said. Sunon noticed the thin crease running horizontally across the middle of it, separating two steel plates, one of which ran up into the ceiling, the other running into the floor below. There was no control panel, no keypad, nothing—just ten tons of solid steel between them and their goal.

"Tell me you've got explosives." He pointed a thumb back at the ship.

"To do what with?" she snapped. "Bring the roof down on our heads?" She was no expert demolitionist—even if she _could_ find something powerful enough to blow a hole through the door, the blast would drop the next floor right on top of them. Worse, it could bring the entire _building_ down on them. Half the reason they were here was to find Ibayo—and Zola's informants had told them that she was being held in the upper levels of the tower.

"Then how do we get through?" he shouted, his voice growing frantic. When Sunon failed to answer, he went to the door and walked from one end to the other, tracing his hand along it as if he could find some weak spot in its construction.

"I don't know," she mumbled to herself.


	9. Ups And Downs

"Tell me you have a way past this!" Gamin gestured at the massive security door before them. Past that lay the rest of the citadel's interior, and their only means of de-activating the inner city's security systems. _Behind_ them, those security systems were still very much active—and Czerka's forces were fast converging on the tower's entrance. Soon, there would be too many for Zola and his allies to hold off.

"Let me think," she said, running her eyes up and down the featureless barrier of steel. Explosives could get them _around_ the door, but that would mean going outside—and running straight into Czerka's forces. There was no computerized security system to slice—not here, at least—and getting to the locking mechanisms that supported the lower half of the door was impossible in such a short timeframe.

"We're stuck," she said.

Gamin let out a short, pained laugh and threw his hands up in the air before slumping against the door.

"Then were dead. Or arrested, _then _dead." Frustration flashed across his face, and he balled his hand up into a fist and slammed it into the steel bulkhead blocking their path. It wasn't his anger that surprised her, nor the fact that he vented it on an inanimate object. She herself had done the same countless times.

What surprised her was the shallow dent he had left in a foot of solid steel.

"Up!" She rushed over and grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to his feet, then positioned him a good ten feet from the door. "Get it open."

"What?" He looked back at her in disbelief. "I cant—"

Sunon grabbed his chin and twisted his head so that he was looking forward again.

"See that dent? _You _did that."

"I was angry!" he exclaimed, as if desperately seeking an excuse for some wrong he had committed. But Sunon wasn't looking for excuses. In fact, it sounded like 'angry' was exactly what they needed.

"If you don't get that door open, I will go outside and kill people until I find someone who can." She waved her blaster in the air beside him for effect. It was a lie, of course. There was no time left to do something like that. If Gamin couldn't get them in _now, _the two of them would die when every guard in the compound descended on their position.

"You wanted to be a Jedi once, right? Then act like one."

Gamin gritted his teeth, extended his arms outward, and pushed. An invisible force had the hairs on Sunon's neck standing on end, and she swore she could feel the pressure in the air change as Gamin projected his will on the barrier before them. The door creaked and groaned, but otherwise did not budge an inch. Gamin's fear was gone, wiped clean by a mask of determination. But he didnt just need to be determined—he needed to be _angry._

"Did you leave the Order?" Sunon said. "Or did they kick you out for being weak?"

Gamin's eyes flickered over to hers, and his muscles tensed as he put renewed effort into pushing on the door. The whine of strained metal grew louder until it was a constant screech, and the door began to tremble in place.

"What did your parents say when you left?" She softened her voice into a lilting tease. "Did they wonder why the stronger brother had to be the one they lost?"

Gamin's eyes shot wide and he looked straight at Sunon, even as he kept shoving on the door through the air. The furious young man looked a split-second away from turning his powers on _her, _but the rattling of the door in its slot had Sunon too emboldened to back down. If he failed, she was dead anyway.

Feigning disappointment, Sunon looked at the still-intact door and shook her head. "No wonder you couldn't save that woman. You can't even save yourself." She clicked her tongue and turned away as if to leave. "Pathetic."

Behind her came a sharp _snap _and a rush of air as the groaning of the strained door was replaced by a horrific screech, like nails on a chalkboard. What followed was a thunderous crash that shook the entire hall, making Sunon stumble on her feet as she turned around to see what had happened. The top door was still in place, blocking half the hallway, but the bottom bulkhead had been slammed back into its housing within the floor, cracking the hard marble all around it.

"I guess you're not useless," she said as she rushed past Gamin under the remaining half of the door.

"Hey!" he shouted after her, reluctantly breaking out into a jog to keep up. "Don't you dare think we're ok!"

She was sure he had more than a few heated words to throw at her, but they would have to wait. They'd gotten the door open, but time still wasn't on their side. The remainder of the hall was untouched by the ship she had sent careening through the front door, and showed all the gaudy wealth Czerka had extracted from Bandomeer's dusty ground. They reached the center of the building, an open space that ran so far up Sunon could barely make out the ceiling.

As she marvelled at the sheer size of the citadel's interior, blaster fire erupted from multiple levels, striking the floor all around her and Gamin. She rushed them to the edge of the space, seeking cover under the balcony just above them.

There were nearly a hundred floors, each marked by the railed balcony circling the tower's center. Four elevators were situated around the lobby, any of which would take them to the floor they needed to reach—but those would be locked down tight. Even if they could slice one, they risked getting their elevator disabled manually by someone shooting out the magnetic lifts at the tops and bottoms of the vacuum tubes. Stairs weren't an option, either. Zola couldn't hold off an army while she and Gamin ran up a hundred stories. Not to mention, she was wearing seventy pounds of armor and he was breathing like he had just run a marathon. They'd never even make it to the top.

"How much do you weigh?" she asked Gamin.

He eyed her warily, as if trying to figure out what sinister implication his answer had.

"One-seventy... why?"

Sunon stepped closer to the edge of the balcony above them and peered out. Seeing that they were still out of sight of any guards, she waved Gamin over. As soon as he was within arm's reach, she wrapped her arm around him in a grip so tight she thought she might leave imprints.

"What the hell," he choked out.

"You don't mind heights, do you?" Gamin still in hand, she stepped out from under the balcony and looked at her wrist. With Gamin's added weight, she only had enough fuel for one jump. If they missed it, they were going to end up either on the wrong floor, or as a bloody stain on the marble they stood on now.

"Jump calc," she said into her wrist. "Floor sixty-one."

"No," Gamin exclaimed, squirming in her grip as horrible realization washed over him. "No, no, no!"

Sunon gripped him tighter and took another step towards the center of the room. From there she could just make out the figures of a few guards racing around the floors above, trying to figure out where she and Gamin had taken cover.

"Just leave me here! You said to stay out of your way, right?" He gave her a pitiful, pleading grin. "I'll do that! I'll stay down here!"

She looked back down at him. "Hold on if you don't want to fall."

His eyes went wide and he swallowed, resigning himself to his fate as he wrapped both arms tightly around Sunon's torso. She had thought she was holding _him _tight, but even through her armor she could feel the death grip he had on her. Steeling herself for what she was about to do, she took a deep breath and stepped out from under the balcony. The guards above shouted, and blaster fire followed, striking the marble floor—but she was already gone, her jetpack rocketing her upward at dizzying speeds.

Floor after floor flew by, and the computer wired into her helmet let out a series of increasingly frequent beeps to indicate how close she was getting to her intended level. Floor numbers flew by on her visual display, but she wasn't paying attention to those. She closed her eyes, feeling the acceleration pressing down on her shoulders as the beeps piercing her ears grew closer and closer, then finally turned into a continuous drone. She flexed her fingers, triggering a forward burst from the jetpack just as the fuel cells ran dry, propelling her and Gamin towards the balcony railing in front of them. She spun around as they flew forward, and she smashed through the glass railing before flying straight into the wall opposite it. Both of them fell to the floor, Gamin rolling from her arms and then quickly scrambling to his feet.

"Never again!" he shouted, pressing himself to the wall beside Sunon as he sought to get as far away from the edge as possible. "I'd rather die!"

Shouts came from the floors above and below them, and she could hear the beat of boots above and below as the Czerka guards rushed to intercept the pair that had flown right by them.

"You might still get your wish," she said, retreating into the safety of a hallway leading away from the main tower. It wasn't one she chose at random.

Czerka had made a policy of not hiring any locals from hostile populations, which made intel on the interior of the tower sparse. Fortunately, Zola's group had recovered many of the cleaning droids Czerka had thrown away when they stopped working. Through the memory banks recovered from those, a complete map of the tower had been assembled, showing them the location of the planetary Director's office.

Sunon and Gamin rounded a corner and came within view of a door blocking their way, but this one was a carved slab of wood—not a metal barrier—and the latch broke with one heavy kick from Sunon. Both her and Gamin entered the office, the former motioning for the latter to shut the broken doors behind them as she scanned the lavish executive suite.

An overweight man in a suit bearing Czerka's green & yellow colors knelt behind the desk. His eyes went wide when he saw Sunon, and he raised a blaster. She fired off a few shots at the wall behind him, forcing him to take cover as she approached. The next time he tried to peek out from his hiding place she was on top of him, grabbing the gun from his hand and hauling him onto his high-back desk chair.

"I surrender!" he exclaimed, holding his hands high. Sunon tossed the blaster to Gamin, then turned back to the seated man.

"Renard Haut, I assume?"

He nodded quickly, his jowls shaking with every frantic jerk of his head. Sunon gave the edge of his chair a hard shove with her boot, sending him smacking against the rear wall as Gamin leaned over desk's computer terminal.

"That's the lobby elevators locked down," he said after a few moments of frantic typing.

"Now the wall," Sunon said as she grabbed Haut's chair and wheeled him along with her towards the window running along one wall. From their position nearly seventy stories up she had a breathtaking view of Bandor, one that only grew more beautiful as every security door along the wall encircling the inner city was thrown open. Blaster fire erupted across the compound, and a tidal wave of Meerians seemed to form out of nothingness and converge on the walls.

Before Sunon had arrived, Zola's resistance had been plagued by a rare problem—they had more weapons than warm bodies to carry them. She had told him how to solve that. Just before fighting broke out, his closest followers would go door to door and put a blaster in the hands of anyone old enough to fire it. If they didn't want to fight, they were told that traitors would be remembered once Czerka was thrown off of Bandomeer. Not everyone could be brave—but the fearful were even easier to motivate.

"How's it looking out there?" Gamin said, still standing at the desk.

"Lovely," she responded.

They watched in silence as the fighting moved inside the compound, the groups of rebels converging on each and every building in the inner city as the Czerka forces retreated inside fortified office structures to make a desperate last stand.

"They're holing up inside the buildings," she mused.

"Then we've got them," Gamin said.

"Yes, we do." She turned her head back to look at him and pointed at the computer. "Make sure Zola's people don't run into any locked doors."

He gave her an uneasy smile.

"We don't have to do that," he said. "They're prisoners in their own buildings. We can negotiate."

"Negotiate?" she spat back. It was obvious where this was going. Gamin was still as soft as ever, but had regained enough confidence to second-guess her decisions. Earlier, he had nearly cost them their win. Now, he wanted to throw that hard-won victory away.

"Yes!" came a frantic exclamation from beside her. She had nearly forgotten about Haut as she watched the sight unfolding below them. "I'm a very important man! Very important!" He ran an arm across his sweaty brow. "As managing director for this sector, I am full authorized to negotiate with..." He looked uneasily between her and Gamin. "Whoever you people are."

"Managing director?" Sunon's tone softened and she turned to face him.

"Yes!" He forced a confident smile. "A vital cog in Czerka's machinery! They would pay a king's ransom for someone of my stature."

She doubted that very much—intergalactic corporations made a policy of not negotiating with extortionists—but she did realize that this was the type of man who could accomplish what she wanted.

"I want to send a message," she said. "Czerka will leave Bandomeer, and never return."

"I—" For a moment he sounded as if he might attempt some argument or negotiating tactic, but another look at the heavily armored woman turned him back into a quivering mess of agreeability. "Absolutely! I can't imagine they'll _want_ to return. Not after... this..." He trailed off and looked out the window at a battle that had grown quiet as the Meerians surrounded the fortified buildings scattered around the compound. "How do you want to relay this message?"

Sunon had already thought that through. With Haut's attention focused on his conquered city, she pulled her hand up and then whipped it down, extending the blade hidden in her gauntlet. With another quick motion she cocked her arm back, and drove it towards the man's chest.

Then, she came to a halt, the tip of her blade poised mere inches from Haut's chest. It was like she was trying to move through some impossibly dense liquid, and the air rippled around her in slowly undulating waves. Confused, she looked around until her eyes fell on Gamin. His face was contorted with immense strain, his trembling hands extended out towards her. He was doing this. She had shown him how to harness his power, and now he was turning it on her—but he was weak, and she was strong.

Turning her attention back to Haut, she saw that he was staring right at her blade, his chest heaving with terrified breaths and hands gripping the armrests of his chair. He was frozen solid, too scared to even move. Sunon willed her arm forward, picturing her blade puncturing the man's chest. As soon as she drew blood Gamin would lose his nerve, and the rest would be easy. Then, she would deal with him.

For a few moments, nothing happened. The scene must have looked absurd to anyone watching, the only movement of the three people involved the quaking of their limbs. Sunon pushed and pushed, but her muscles were growing tired and she found her arm being pushed away from Haut. Gamin must have sensed that weakness—he threw his hands off to the side, grabbing the entirety of Sunon's body with the Force and tossing her clear across the room. She smashed into the wall near the door they had entered through, leaving a clear impression of her armored form buried in the wood panelling.

"I _told_ you not to get in my way!" she shouted, launching herself to her feet and storming towards him. He thrust his hands towards her in an effort to latch onto her with the Force, but this time she was ready.

There was a martial art, long-forgotten by most, that had been created for the sole purpose of allowing non-Force users to defeat those who had the ability to tap into its tremendous power. Sunon had only gleaned bits & pieces, but was competent enough in the form to quiet her mind and minimize her presence in the Force even as her body kept moving. It was a simple trick, and would have been useless against an experienced enemy—they would have simply willed the Force to wrap around the physical presence they could see right in front of them, ignoring the underlying change. But Gamin was a novice, relying purely on crudey instinct. He dropped his hands in surprise, unable to process why Sunon had not stopped when he had willed it to happen.

Her fist connected with his gut, punching right through any defenses he might have otherwise unconsciously projected. Just like when he had failed to stop her from closing in on him, he had tried to stop her incoming blow by grabbing onto her arm, instead of simply projecting a barrier between the two of them.

Simple mistakes for a simple man.

"Why are you helping him?" she said as he hit the ground, her booming voice made all the more menacing with her helmet's voice modulator. As Gamin lay clutching his stomach, Sunon cocked her boot back to strike him in the ribs.

"I'm not _trying _to help him," Gamin wheezed. "I'm trying to help _you."_

She lowered her foot back down to the ground. She didnt know why she had nearly dealt him a grievous injury moments after laying him out flat—he was already out of the fight. All she knew was that immense shame and self-revulsion washed over her, quenching the fires of her anger in an instant.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled down at him. They weren't words she had spoken often in her life, but she had meant them every time. Here was no different. He looked up at her in confusion, but his gaze quickly snapped to a presence behind her.

"We interrupting?" came a voice behind her.

Sunon wheeled around and drew her blaster, but it was snatched from her grip before she could fire. Two men stood in the doorway, with four more in the hall outside. The rear four were all Mandalorians, wearing heavy armor of varying clans and colors with the same distinctive T-shaped visor that Sunon herself had on. One of the men in front was outfitted the same way, but with no helmet protecting his bald, burn-marked head.

The final, dark-robed man—the one who now held her blaster—wasn't a man at all. He had red skin, a long, thin face, and two pairs of tusks that protruded from his jaw. Besides his surprising height and lanky build, she could make out little more in the way of identifying features. The rest was covered up by a mask of white bone, one that perfectly matched the contours of his own misshapen skull. Two holes looked to have been bored in the sides, making room for the bat-like ears that stuck out to either side of his head.

"On your knees," the alien croked.

He was a Kaleesh.

She had read stories about a race of vicious, tribal warriors who wore bone masks carved from the skulls of their ancestors—a great honor for the one being worn. The only reason she knew that obscure bit of trivia about such a far-flung species was that she had considered disguising herself as one in the early days of her Bounty Hunting career. She had quickly settled on Zabrak instead, who looked much closer to Sith Purebloods than the gangly Kaleesh.

Sunon did as ordered, slowly dropping to her knees as she raised her hands. The two men in front stepped forward, the bald human waving in the four Mandalorians behind them who funneled in with rifles drawn. He looked to be their captain, but she wasn't quite sure where the Kaleesh fit in. She also couldn't escape the feeling that there was something very familiar about the vile-looking alien.

"Where is she?" the Kaleesh said, glancing between Sunon and Gamin as he circled the two. Gamin had managed to get on his knees alongside her, but the injuries she had given him were not making it easy.

"Who?" Gamin said. As the kneeling pair eyed the alien uneasily, Haut sensed an opportunity to escape and fled for the apparent safety of the waiting Mandalorians.

"Do not think you can _hide _her," the Kaleesh snapped. His yellow, slitted eyes flickered madly behind the mask's gaping sockets. "I can feel her. Her presence washes over me—"

As he paced in front of the two, he came to an abrupt stop.

"No," he muttered. "Its here. Its you." He looked back and forth between Sunon and Gamin, seemingly uncertain of whose Force sensitivity he had sensed.

"You!" shouted the Mandalorian captain, pointing at Sunon. "Helmet off—slow does it."

She obeyed, lowering her hands to the sides of her helmet before plucking it off with a _hiss _of pressurized air. Her identity was clearly a surprise to the Mandalorians, who raised the rifles they had ever so slightly lowered. The captain ordered one of his men to slap a pair of Force cuffs on her, which the man did after yanking off Sunon's gauntlets, leaving her hands bare. The cuffs were just as heavy and uncomfortable as the ones she had worn for their ruse earlier, but these ones _worked. _She may not have had any Force sensitivity to dampen, but handcuffs were handcuffs.

"Now," the captain said. "Where's the third one?"

Neither Sunon nor Gamin answered. Instead of trying to pry the information out of them, he instead motioned for one of his men to bring the Czerka executive forward.

"Where's the hermit?" he repeated.

"Upstairs," he responded uneasily, pointing at the door behind his desk. "She's on the top floor, locked in the penthouse suite."

The Mandalorian eyed him grimly. "You got her in Force cuffs?" An extra pair dangled from the belts of three of troopers. They had come prepared.

"Ah...no. We don't exactly keep those lying around." Haut looked away, withering under the intense glare of the mercenary captain. "I had the lift locked down and rigged with explosives in case she tried to escape."

The captain let out an amused snort and nodded approvingly. "Can those explosives be put on a timer?"

Haut tilted his head to the side in uneasy thought. "They... can be."

"Then do it."

Haut stiffened. "The city isn't lost, yet!" He pointed at the doorway the Mandalorians had come through. "Get out there and help my men!"

At that, the Mandalorian pulled his blaster and pointed it at Haut, giving him a cold stare that left no room for confusion.

"We're not here to pluck your ass from the fire. Get that lift down here, and arm the explosives."

While Haut stumbled over to the terminal to do as requested, the Captain grabbed Sunon by the arm and pulled her roughly upward. As he did so, his wandering eyes went to her shoulder—and the Clan Vizla skull insignia emblazoned on it. His eyes went wide and he dropped her, stepping away as Sunon fell back to her knees.

After a moment spent working the communicator on his wrist, a hologram appeared over it. From the rear it was just a jumbled mess of green pixels, but gradually took the vague shape of a human head.

"Commander," the Mandalorian standing before her said. "You're not gonna believe what we found on Bandomeer." He threw an inscrutable glance in her direction.

"Rocks and savages, I assume?" came a garbled voice from the other end. "Tell me you found those three." There must have been a great distance between the two—the interference made it hard to even understand him, let alone pick up on an identifiable accent.

"That, and more," the bald man said proudly. "We've got a woman wearing the Clan Vizla armor here."

The hologram was silent for a few moments, then she heard a rush of air, like someone drawing air in through their nostrils.

"I want to speak with her," it said. Wrist held at chest-level, the Mandalorian walked the hologram over to her. "Shae Vizla." As the hologram spoke, the bald man knelt in front of Sunon ans turned the projection towards her. "Where is she hiding?"

The moment the face on the other end of the comm link came into view, Sunon's eyes went wide. Beneath the static and glitches was the hard, creased face of Tralus Varad. She had spent years searching for him, pouring endless blood, sweat, and tears in an effort to turn over every rock that could hide a man who seemed to have become a ghost. Now, here he was—and _he _had found _her. _He did not share her shock, instead looking her over with quiet interest.

"The Sith?" he muttered.

"The one were here for," the bald man said with a mean grin. "Czerka already ran facial recognition. Sunon Vathamma, murderer of Nara Jendri."

"Sunon..." Tralus grew more thoughtful, his pixelated brow creasing as he looked off to the side. "Vizla?" His eyes went from her red & grey armor to her face, and Tralus' face took on a delighted expression that had Sunon wanting to bite the communicator clean off of the bald man's wrist.

"Loose ends always get tied up, one way or the other," Tralus mused. "This time, it seems I get the privilege."

"Sir?" the kneeling Mandalorian said.

"You've caught a rare breed indeed," Tralus nodded at Sunon. "A Sith who cannot use the Force. How truly bizarre." Sensing the presence of the Force in others was a rudimentary skill—even someone like Gamin could do it on instinct. Tralus must have pinned her as a have-not the moment they'd met in that museum.

Behind Sunon, the Kaleesh scoffed. "She is not without power."

"What?" Tralus gave him an accusatory look, apparently upset either at being second-guessed or at having his gloating interrupted.

"It is weak, but it is there." The Kaleesh stared at her with unblinking eyes. "Like the buzz of a Givana bug that stays always out of sight."

Sunon's breath caught in her throat. Did the strange alien have a connection to the Force? Had he sensed some latent abilities deep within her that even _she _didnt know about?

Then, her heart dropped—and embarrassment flooded in as she looked at the nervous young man kneeling beside her. Gamin's power was unfocused to such a degree that the Kaleesh had simply assumed it to be coming from the Sith. The alternative was so unlikely that he hadn't even considered it. Sunon's eyes connected with Gamin's, and she nodded down at the sweaty, unrestrained hands clenched tightly on his thighs. The Mandalorians had disarmed them, but he still had his greatest weapon within. She just prayed he would realize it when the moment came to make their move.

"You can sense it?" Tralus gave him an odd look, then Sunon... and then Gamin. His eyes travelled downward, to the young man's trembling fists.

Only then did Sunon notice her _own_ shaking hands, and the cuffs rattling on her wrists. She had ignored the movement, chalking it up to her own nerves—but that wasn't all it was. Gamin had been using the Force to try and snap the cuffs in two, an immense effort that had sweat dripping from his brow and chest heaving with strained breaths.

"Shoot him!" Tralus shouted. "Shoot him now!"

Sunon didnt wait for the shots to come. She bolted to her feet, headbutting the bald man in the chin before stomping straight over him in a full sprint towards the middle two Mandalorians near the doorway. All four rifles were pointed at her. She hit the second from the left with her shoulder, and tackled the one to his right through the doorway. Something hit her in the back, throwing her out into the hallway with the Mandalorian carried with her. She didnt wait to see _what _had hit her—she was alive, and that meant she needed to keep moving. The soldier's back struck the grass railing in the hallway outside as Sunon shoved him into it. The man pointed his rifle at her face, but Sunon dropped onto her back and kicked the man square in the stomach, shattering the railing and sending him plummeting to a screaming death far below.

She was back on her feet well before she heard the satisfying _smack _of the man hitting the ground. Her shoulder-check of the second Mandalorian had taken him into the hall as well, and he rose to his feet just outside the doorway to Haut's office. Inside, Gamin was busy fending off the remaining two soldiers. Both had been disarmed, but one managed to wrap him in a tight hug from behind while the other drew his holstered pistol. Sunon swung her cuffed hands at the man in the doorway, smacking him in the side of his helmet. With that blow the cuffs finally came loose, snapping free of her wrists from the strain Gamin had put on them and the blow Sunon delivered to the Mandalorian's head. She was strong, and with the added weight of cuffs on her hands she might as well have hit him with a sledgehammer. Sunon hopped over him and entered the room just as the bald man rose to his knees, blaster in hand.

There wasn't enough time to close the distance—nor was there enough to retreat back to the safety of the hallway. Time seemed to move in slow motion as both she and Gamin had blasters pointed at them. Then, he used the Force to pull the pistol from the hand of the Mandalorian pointing it at him. It flew into his and he fired, spraying blaster fire across the room in a wide arc. One shot struck his would-be-killer in the gut, one hit the bald man in the lower back, throwing him forward and knocking the blaster from his hand, and one went straight through Sunon's thigh, burning her with intense heat and making her drop onto one knee. The rest struck the walls and floors harmlessly as the soldier holding Gamin threw him about in an effort to wrestle the blaster free.

The blaster the bald man had dropped came to a halt right in front of Sunon. She scrambled for it amidst the screaming pain in her thigh, but her opponent didnt even make a move for the gun. Sunon looked up to see him rocketing towards her, the jetpack on his back scorching a trail across the marble floor as he shot right into her, carrying them both out into the hallway and through the glass balcony. Before she realized what had even happened, the ground beneath her gave way to sheer nothingness.

* * *

One moment, Sunon was charging towards the kneeling Mandalorian captain, ready to bring her cuffs down on his head. The next moment, she and her opponent were gone, sent flying out of the room with a roar of flame and heat that licked at Gamin's ankles as he wrestled with the remaining mercenary.

Haut had taken up his position behind his desk, and managed to grab a blaster in the chaos. He pointed it straight at Gamin, but he couldn't be sure he wasn't aiming for the Mandalorian and just waiting for a clean shot. The way they were thrashing around, though, it didnt matter who he was aiming for—he was liable to hit either one of them.

"If you shoot me, you're gonna have to deal with my partner!" Gamin shouted. He wasn't sure if Haut realized _he _had stopped Sunon from putting a blade through his chest, but he could at least stoke the man's very reasonable fear of the Sith. Haut didnt say anything, his hands shaking against the desk where he had the blaster propped up. The Mandalorian holding onto Gamin managed to slip his finger over the trigger, and was slowly twisting the gun around to point towards Gamin. It was only a matter of time until the merc's strength won out, and trying to do anything fancy with the Force was a death sentence while one slip up meant a shot in the gut.

Gamin gave up the gun, letting his hands sleep free of the merc's arms and ducking under them as he scrambled away.

"All yours!" he shouted as he made a mad dash for the desk. Blaster fire came from behind him, and he spun around only after reaching cover to see the Mandalorian slumping to the ground, half a dozen poorly-placed shots riddling his armor.

Gamin stayed behind the desk until he saw Haut stand up, blaster in hand and staring in horror at the dead Mandalorian.

"I shot him," he muttered. "I killed him."

"Yeah, you did." It took Gamin himself a moment to remember that _he _had killed someone in the chaos, too—one of the two soldiers inside the room had been shot by him. The fact that it just as easily could have been Gamin dead instead of the Mandalorian did little to make him feel better about what he had done. If anything, it made the whole experience more surreal and nauseating.

As he approached Haut to try and take the shell shocked executive's blaster, Haut spun to face him and raised the blaster.

"Whoa, there." Gamin raised his hands. "Remember what I said." He nodded towards the exit to the hallway where Sunon had disappeared only a minute ago.

Haut swallowed, seeming to catch his meaning, then turned to his desk and put three shots in the computer terminal.

"What the hell?" Gamin ran over to Haut and wrestled the blaster from his grip, the latter giving little resistance.

"_You _can deal with that Kaleesh if you want!" Haut shouted, pointing at the open door behind his desk as he raced for the exit. "_I'm _leaving!"

Gamin gave chase, but the overweight executive was faster than he looked. "Get back here, you prick!"

The moment he made it into the hallway, he was met with blaster fire from all directions. Ducking back into the office, he ran his hands over himself to find that he hadn't actually been hit—he had just come damn close. From the split-second glimpse he had caught of the tower's center, the floors near his were packed with the remaining Czerka guards being pushed upward by the advancing Meerians. The latter would reach him eventually, but they couldn't help him now—they certainly couldn't do anything about the explosives in the executive elevator. He ran to the rear of the office, through the open door behind Haut's desk, and into another hall that turned into a long corridor that ran to the executive elevator.

There he found the red-skinned alien who had disappeared a short while ago. He wasn't a Sith—Gamin could tell that much—but besides that he didnt know _what _he was. A 'Kaleesh', Haut had called him. Whatever he was, the tall being gave Gamin the creeps. He was only a few steps from the lift, and the doors were already wide open.

"Hey!" Gamin shouted, aiming his blaster as he ran. The outburst had the desired effect, bringing the Kaleesh to a halt just before the elevator. Gamin fired as he ran, giving no thought to what would happen when the bolts struck. He just knew he couldn't let that thing get to Ibayo. Whatever it wanted with her, it certainly wouldn't be good. He had planned on squeezing the trigger until the gun's heatsink gave out on him, but the alien deflected the first few bolts with casual waves of his hand, sending them straight back at Gamin. It was only pure dumb luck—and his conservative trigger finger—that kept him alive. He slid to a stop, unsure of what to do. The hallway had no cover, no doorways to bust through, and the turn in the hall was a good thirty feet behind him.

Maybe it was good that he hesitated—it meant he could see what was coming. The alien thrust his open palm towards Gamin, sending a wave of energy towards him that rippled the wall tiles, cracked the marble floor, and shattered every light in the ceiling as it cut a swathe of destruction down the hall. Gamin tensed up and held out his own hands to shield himself in a move far more instinctual than intentional, but it was enough to save his life. He was thrown back down the hall, hitting the floor and knocking the air from his lungs twenty feet from where his feet had left solid ground. When he managed to prop himself up on his elbows, he saw that the lift doors had closed and that the hallway looked like it'd had a rancor tear through it.

He got back to his feet and started walking forward—slowly at first, then running. Running towards something he _really _should be running _away _from. He used the Force to wrench open the elevator doors, a task that felt almost _easy_ after having done the same to a ten-ton blast door. The thought brought a smile to his face, but the crackle of broken lights behind him reminded him of the far greater power he had just witnessed—and hjs smile promptly vanished.

"What are you doing?" he muttered to himself, looking up and down the elevator shaft. Below him was pitch blackness, and far above sat the motionless turbolift. The only way to call it was to either swipe a card in the ID reader on the wall beside him, or to use Haut's personal terminal. _Neither _of those were viable options. The only way up was just inside the shaft, and a little to his left—an option that turned his stomach. Never again, he had told himself. Yet there he was, leaping onto the narrow service ladder running up the length of the shaft.

"After _this, _never again." He hoped that this time, he could keep that promise to himself. Either that or conquer his fear of heights through sheer exposure.

Halfway up a ladder that seemed to grow longer with each rung he pulled himself up by, he heard the noise of metal rattling. Far above, the elevator was shaking in its moorings, whipping the lift cables to and fro hard enough to nearly smack him in the back. For a moment the rattling died down, then started again. Loud '_bangs' _rang out, shaking the ladder and threatening to knock him from his perch. That was worrying enough to make him scoot down a few feet and begin to use the Force to pry open a door he had just passed.

Then, the shaking was replaced by a loud screech that he could feel in every bone of his body. Looking up, he saw that the elevator was now much closer—and hurtling right towards him.

* * *

It was only instinct and adrenaline-heightened reflexes that allowed Sunon to grab onto the Mandalorian's leg before she fell seventy stories into the pit of blaster fire far below. The battle between the Meerians and Czerka was steadily working its way upward, though she could only spare a single glimpse down at the chaos before she and Crale crashed through the glass railing across the tower. He had likely meant to kill her and flee upward, away from the fighting and towards the tower's docking pads, but her added weight dragged them down two dozen floors from where they started.

After the glass came a dizzying blur of wood, marble, and carpet that hit her from all angles and tested every shock absorber in her suit. When the spinning finally stopped she was staring up at a bright chandelier in what looked to be a conference room. As she gripped the table beside her and rose to her feet, her eyes met with Crale on the opposite side of the table. The man staggered to his feet with no more grace than her, and his face was bloodied and bruised. Judging by the searing pain running from her neck to hairline, she doubted she had fared much better.

Crale dove across the table, a blade sliding out of his gauntlet as he brought his fist towards Sunon. She sidestepped the blow and grabbed his arm, using his own momentum to fling him across the room into the wall behind her. The awkward movement sent a pain shooting through her leg, reminding her very vividly that she had been shot. After all this, she would have a word with Gamin about that. For now, her chief worry was the man scurrying back to his feet in a running tackle.

Sunon put him in a headlock and tried to force him to the ground, but he was strong. He kept pushing, driving her onto the conference table until he was on top of her. His wrist-blade rained down from above, stabbing the wood all around her head as she grabbed at his arm. After a strike close enough to nearly take off her right ear, she managed to wrap her arms around both of his like a snake coiling around its prey, pulling him in for a tight embrace until his face was inches from hers. She lurched forward, clamping her teeth down on the meat of his nose and clenching her jaw as tight as she could.

Crale screamed, blood and spit dripping onto her chin as he tried to wrench free of her. After a few moments he did—but only by leaving half of his nose behind in her clenched teeth. Eyes wide with utter rage, the blood-stained man brought his forehead down on Sunon's, delivering a tremendous blow that had her vision spinning and ears ringing. Crale tore himself away, leaving Sunon to struggle back to her feet—but his retreat was short lived. He stood in the doorway leading out of the room, arm pointed at her. She ducked just in time to avoid the wrist-rocket that shot out, though she could hear—and feel—the wall behind her being blown to bits, showering her with shrapnel. Another rocket took out the table, nearly throwing her flat to the floor, but she managed to close the distance, tackling Crale and driving him out into the central tower where she slammed him into the balcony railing with a sharp _'crack.'_

The battle was raging everywhere—above them, below them, even on the same floor. Blaster fire criss-crossed the vast space like a deadly laser light show, reducing the once glamorous corporate headquarters to a shattered ruin. An explosion rocked the entire structure, shaking loose broken glass and making both her and Crale stumble in their deadly embrace. A pillar of fire tore its way up the other end of the tower near Haut's office, starting from the floor and working its way up until it ran the entire height of the spire. Fire sprinklers kicked in soon after, filling the tower with a fine mist alongside the smoke and ash quickly flooding it.

"This is for my nose," Crale spat. He shoved her back and kneed her in the face, breaking her own nose and making her reel back in pain and shock. "And _this_ is business." Before she knew it he had grabbed her by one arm and hurled her over the balcony. Only then did she react, grabbing onto the metal frame before she could begin her very quick trip downwards.

But it was useless. She was too tired, her suit was too heavy, and her hands too sweaty—not that any of that had time to come into play. Crale stepped back and delivered a powerful kick to the railing, sending Sunon hurtling downwards. For a few seconds, she simply fell, though she managed to keep her grip on the railing being pulled from its moorings like a spool of wire being undone. Then the railing went taut, catching on something and bringing her to an abrupt halt. The sudden stop yanked her arm from its socket and tore the railing from her grip. She kept falling, flailing desperately for purchase on the floors flying past her at terrifying speed. When she hit ground, she hit it _hard._ All the shock absorbers in the world wouldn't have stopped her ankle from shattering when she landed on her right foot.

Sunon cried out in pain, smashing to the ground in the very center of a battle still running at full tilt. Debris and bodies lay all around, and she could hardly breathe through the thick smoke settling over the lobby. Far above her, Crale leapt from his perch and soared downward, flaring his jetpack briefly to slow his descent just before he touched bottom. He scooped a blaster up from the ground and stomped over to Sunon, his mangled face a twisted mixture of triumph and rage.

It was only with the cold blackness of that blaster barrel staring her in the face that Sunon felt something welling deep within her. Not a fierce determination to live, or even a fear of death.

It was _shame._

"This ain't gonna come _close _to what I'd like to do to you." Crale slowly squeezed the trigger, savoring the moment with perverse delight. "But we're out of time."

And so was she. Blaster fire rang out, a horrid screech that Sunon would have assumed to be directed at her—except she was still alive to hear it. Crale stumbled forwards and gasped, cradling the gaping blaster wounds that had formed in his chest and stomach. He raised the pistol in his hand in one final show if defiance, but Sunon used her good leg—the one Gamin had shot, but which remained unbroken—to kick his hand aside.

Crale didn't have the strength to re-aim the blaster. With a bloody gurgle he fell to his knees, then slumped to the ground by Sunon's feet. A moment later, Sunon was being dragged from the central tower towards the security door Gamin had forced open. When she came to a stop, she peered around to see Zola and one of his men standing on either side of her.

"Fight almost done," the Meerian said to her with a tight-lipped grimace that showed cautious confidence.

Sunon pointed towards the room she had been dragged from. "Gamin's in there somewhere." Her voice shook horribly, a fact she hoped Zola didnt pick up on. She tried to stand, but an unwanted cry of pain had the two Meerians gently lowering her back into a lying position.

"No good," Zola tutted, pointing at her left leg and the blaster hole Gamin had made in it. He was right, but it was the shattered ankle in her right giving her the real trouble.

"I think he's in the tower," she said.

Zola looked at her, aghast. "One elevator!" he explained, holding up a finger. No doubt he had seen what she had—that one route up being reduced to molten metal by an explosion still present as a raging fire barely contained by the building's fire suppression system. Still, as her aunt Maliss had said, where there was a will, there was a way. And sometimes you had to think outside the box—or the tower.

"Get me a shuttle," said Sunon.

* * *

Gamin tore open the door beside him, leaping through just as the elevator zoomed past him on a screeching tear downwards. For a brief moment, he considered peeking his head back into the shaft to watch it hit bottom. Then, he remembered what Haut had said about an elevator packed with explosives.

He rolled over onto his back, reaching out with the Force to the doors he had just broken and wrenching them shut again. A split-second later, he felt a heat envelop him that seemed to come out of nowhere. An imperceptible fraction of a second after_that, _the entire hall shook with the force of the explosion roaring its way up the elevator shaft. It took all his strength to keep the doors closed as they buckled outwards, eventually snapping free of the frame entirely. Just as total exhaustion seemed near, the explosive force fighting against him subsided, and he was able to let the twisted doors clatter to the floor. Smoke and ash billowed over him as he rose to his feet in a fit of coughing and sputtering.

The elevator shaft looked more intact than he had expected, but peaking in felt like sticking his head in an oven. There was too much smoke to see all the way to the top, but what was _definitely_ no longer there was the ladder he had been climbing. That was gone, along with any hope of getting to Ibayo and the Force-wielding alien she was now stuck with in a penthouse suite. Stepping back, he reached out towards the two broken doors on the floor, then levitated them into elevator shaft and used them to block out the smoke rising from above. After a moment the haze and heat lessened, and he was able to see a clear up to the top. A faint glow lit up the top of the shaft, telling him the doors the Kaleesh had went through were still open—if he could only get up there. Looking down, his eyes fell on the doors he was still holding in place. They had formed a sort of floor across the open space, one that _almost_ looked secure enough to step on.

Heart pounding, Gamin scooted closer to the edge and tapped the doors with his foot, one after the other, checking their steadiness as he kept them held aloft with his palms outstretched. They tilted slightly with his pressing, but he was able to keep them still with only slight flicks of his fingers. He was no stranger to using the Force to levitate objects, but always small ones—a wallet here, some casino chips there—not slabs of hollow metal, and _certainly_ not the blast door he had thrown into the ground downstairs.

Maybe it was that rapid evolution of his abilities that had him stepping out into the precipice—or maybe his body moved before his mind had time to second-guess the blood-curdling risk he was taking. Regardless, he was now balanced on two slabs of hot metal in a hotter elevator shaft, held up by nothing but his own willpower and spotty concentration.

He raised his hands up, causing the floor beneath him to rise. Faster and faster he rose, fear and exhilaration causing him to let out a nervous laugh that turned to one of triumph as his eyes met the open doorway of his final destination. He leapt into the hallway ahead of him, letting his makeshift elevator fall down the shaft with a violent clatter that grew ever more distant until becoming inaudible.

The apartment he had landed in was an unmarred paradise of white marble, blue velvet furniture, and gold inlay that coiled up the wood walls like vines on a trellis. Gamin might have forgotten all about the battle still raging far below, were he not still able to smell the acrid smoke wafting up the elevator—although that might have been coming from _him,_ he realized. He made his way through a lounge meant for entertaining wealthy guests, noting the well-stocked bar set against the wall with a hint of regret before heading up a flight of stairs into another long, curving hallway. A soft murmur was coming from the other end, and as he walked he could just barely make out voices—two people, one shouting in harsh tones. Gamin drew his blaster and pressed himself against the inner wall of the corridor, making his way to the end of the hall and the doorway to his left.

Inside stood the alien who had given him the slip a few minutes prior, gesturing outwards and shouting amidst the luxurious surroundings of the apartment's master bedroom. The doors to the room had been torn open, one laying atop a broken table while the other was nowhere to be seen. Wind howled through a shattered floor-length window, giving some clue as to where the other door may have been sent flying. The alien went silent, and for one terrifying moment Gamin was sure he had been spotted. Then the Kaleesh knelt down on one knee, revealing Ibayo a few feet past him.

"Darth Nox." He took a small metal cylinder from his belt and held it out to her, as if offering up the greatest treasure in the galaxy. "Take me as your apprentice once again."

It took Gamin a moment to process what the alien had just said—and who he had said it too. Gamin _knew_ what the Darth title meant—anyone with the barest knowledge of the Sith Empire's politics did. But the alien had just used it to address the quiet, middle-aged woman who Gamin had marked as a healer—and a former Jedi.

But had she ever actually _said_ she was a Jedi?

Ibayo reached out as if to take the object, but then folded the alien's fingers back around it. Xalek withdrew his cloth-wrapped hands without a word, though Gamin could see his entire body quaking in anger. More than that, he could _feel_ it—waves of dark intent crashing into him and threatening to drag him into its deep, dark depths.

"Do you think I am not strong enough?" Xalek shouted, rising to his and showing his full size once again. He reached a hand back towards Gamin, and immediately Gamin felt himself being pulled around the corner of the doorway and along the floor like he had been caught in a riptide. A moment later the alien's hand was around his neck, squeezing so tight he could hardly breathe. With the other hand he twisted Gamin's wrist, forcing the blaster from his grip.

"Is this why you reject me? A new student?"

Ibayo moved as if to help Gamin, but stopped when she saw Xalek's long fingers tightening around Gamin's neck. She didn't seem surprised to see him—likely she had already felt his presence, and was simply hoping Xalek, in his anger, wouldn't notice the intruder.

"I have not taken another student," she said. "And I never will."

Xalek reached to his belt and unclipped something. A moment later, a red glow appeared and Gamin felt a faint heat emanating from the other side of Xalek.

"An apprentice does not kill his master until he has learned all she has to teach." Xalek raised the hand not choking Gamin, revealing a red lightsaber pointed at Ibayo's face. She maintained a stoic expression, though she flinched slightly as the blade neared her.

"But if you will not teach me, then you have _already_ taught me all you can." He swung back the lightsaber as if to strike her, but adjusted his swing at the last moment and brought the saber straight towards Gamin's chest. A split-second later, the blade stopped a few inches from Gamin's chest. Ibayo had grabbed Xalek's shoulder, restraining the brawny alien with a strength Gamin could hardly believe.

"There it is!" Xalek exclaimed, his anger replaced by feverish excitement. He whirled around, tearing his arm free of Ibayo's grip and throwing Gamin at the shattered window, out into the smoke-filled skies of Bandomeer. A hand grabbed onto his just as he began to fall, and his chest slammed into the exterior of the building. Ibayo was laying on the floor above him, holding his wrist with both hands.

"This is not like you," boomed the alien's voice from inside the penthouse. "You chain yourself to these pitiful creatures." Xalek appeared above Ibayo, lightsaber in hand. Gamin frantically searched for a safe grip on a window frame covered in broken glass, and could do little but watch in horror as Xalek raised the lightsaber above him. Nor could Ibayo do anything, either—one wrong move and she risked dropping Gamin to a messy death at the base of Czerka's headquarters.

"I will _free_ you of those chains." Xalek leaned over Ibayo and thrust his lightsaber at Gamin's head. Before it could reach him she released her grip. For a few moments he scraped the edge of the building, then he was falling in open air as the building narrowed between the penthouse and main structure. A split-second after that, his back struck solid metal—but it wasn't the ground, nor part of the tower. He was on the ramp of a small ship that was fast rising to meet the windowed wall of the penthouse apartment he had just fallen from. Two stout Meerians stood just behind him, rifles in hand and eyes fixed squarely on the tower. Between the two sat Sunon, a tripod-mounted rifle planted squarely between her spread legs.

"Move!" she shouted, prompting Gamin to scramble off to the side and up the ramp into the ship's passenger bay. Even if her words couldn't reach the two people still in the tower, the noise of the shuttle did. Xalek held his lightsaber in a defensive posture, blocking the onslaught of blaster fire that erupted from Sunon and the two men flanking her. The alien moved so fast that Gamin could scarcely make out individual movements, but he could tell by the explosions of light and sound that the lightsaber was still bearing the brunt of the attack. Gradually he was forced backwards, allowing Ibayo to rise onto all fours beneath the stream of blaster bolts continuing above her.

"Jump!" Gamin shouted, edging towards the corner of the ramp. He waved a hand in view of Sunon and the Meerians, who stopped firing long enough for Ibayo to stand up and throw herself towards the waiting ramp. Halfway between the window and shuttle, she stopped—not moving forward, nor falling. Xalek walked back towards the window, lightsaber held at his side and hand extended outwards. Realizing what the alien was trying to do, Gamin reached out with the Force and pulled Ibayo towards him with all the strength he could muster—which, compared to the furious creature opposing him, wasn't much.

"Shoot him!" Gamin shouted desperately, feeling Ibayo being pulled from his grip by the much stronger Kaleesh. One of the Meerians rushed to the opposite corner of the ramp and fired at Xalek, forcing the alien to once again bring his lightsaber up in a defensive pose. Yet Gamin _still_ couldn't overpower him. Instead, Gamin released his hold on Ibayo, allowing the woman to slip back through the air towards the tower.

Then, he thrust his hand outwards, sending a forceful blast rippling through the air and crashing into his unsuspecting opponent. Xalek stumbled backwards, catching a blaster bolt in the shoulder when he momentarily dropped his guard.

But that wasn't the only thing he let fall. With neither Xalek nor Gamin holding her aloft, Ibayo plummeted downward with enough speed that Gamin had to throw himself onto the edge of the ramp to keep her within sight. Again he reached out with the Force, wrapping it around her like a net and pulling her towards him. With her clear of the apartment window, Sunon and her two comrades unleashed on Xalek, shredding the top floor of the spire. He was pushed back further and further until Gamin could no longer see him among the smoke and debris accumulating within.

"Mo'achindo!" came a shout from beside Gamin. He craned his head back to see one of the Meerians kneeling on the ramp with a long metal tube propped up on his shoulder, with one end pointed at the building. What the exclamation meant was a mystery to Gamin—at least until the tube erupted in a small explosion of fire and smoke, sending a rocket hurtling towards the apartment. A far larger explosion followed, finishing what their small-arms fire had begun and sending a plume of smoke billowing out of the building.

Gamin tore his eyes away from the spectacle and focused on hauling Ibayo the rest of the way towards him, even as he heard a sharp _'crack'_ that heralded the ravaged penthouse collapsing in on itself like a controlled demolition. The entire luxury home collapsed onto the citadel's roof, which itself gave way under the weight of steel and concrete falling atop it. Floor after floor broke beneath the avalanche, each one sounding out across the city as the glass windows wrapped around the building shattered from top to bottom.

A hand gripped Gamin's, and only then did he realize he had drawn Ibayo the rest of the way up. She clambered awkwardly over him to the safety of the passenger bay, and he was all too happy to follow. The collapse of Czerka's headquarters had come to a halt before the main building could crumple in on itself completely, though Gamin could still hear the sounds of destruction raging across the rest of Bandomeer's inner city. The hollow rumblings of a building stressed to its breaking point, intermittent blaster fire exchanged between the Meerians and the last Czerka holdouts—and strangest of all, faint cheers far below him.


	10. A Waking Dream

Darth Nox stood on the raised deck looking over the bridge of the _Leviathan. _To her left and right were dozens of Imperial Officers, some sitting hunched over computer terminals while others moved across the room at as fast a walking pace as they could manage.

Her attention was focused not on them, but on the massive viewing window ahead of her. On the left lay Darvannis, a planet that would look very unremarkable, were it not for the orbital shipyards sitting in a dense ring around its middle. She could not see any of that through her veiled hood - not like someone with eyes could - but she could feel the life covering the planet. Darvannis, with its dense network of towns and factory cities, was a blinding light on the edge of her vision. One which threatened to distract her from the matter at hand.

"Wings three and seven are down, sir!" came a shout from the pit below.

Just to the right of Darvannis, far above the planet itself, a battle raged. The vanguard of her task force had pinned down a similarly-sized fleet sent by the Eternal Empire of Zakuul to establish a foothold on Darvannis. Darth Nox had caught them mid-assault, forcing the enemy to choose between staying to fight, or abandoning their ground forces to orbital bombardment. They had chosen the former, and now the bulk of the Imperial force was moving to join the fight.

Darvaniss' mass shadow had made it impossible to drop out of hyperspace any nearer to the planet, forcing the _Leviathan _and its sub-capital support ships to jet forward on sublight thrusters. For now, the Sith and Zakuul forces were evenly matched. Once the heavy artillery of her capital ship came into range, the scales would be decidedly tipped to the side of the Sith.

It would be a much-needed win for the Sith, who, along with their former Republic enemies, had been pushed back at a frightening pace. Mere weeks had passed since Darth Marr's expeditionary fleet fell to this once-unknown enemy, and now they were within reach of both Coruscant and Dromund Kaas.

Yes, a much-needed win indeed - _if _no enemy reinforcements arrived. Lord Tanomas was engaged several systems away, keeping the sector's second enemy fleet occupied while Darth Nox rushed to keep Darvannis from falling into enemy hands. The world was a planet-sized factory, one which the Empire could not afford to lose. More than that, they couldn't afford it being used _by _their enemy. For it to fall would be two defeats in one. Tanomas could not hope to do serious damage during his ambush, but all he needed to do was buy them time. Ideally, with minimal losses on his part.

"How long until we are within range?" Darth Nox said to the officer standing to her left. He was an older man, with a balding head of brown hair hidden by the gray naval cap he was never seen without. He squinted down at one of the computerized displays below - the sort of dead thing Darth Nox couldn't perceive in any meaningful sense - then gave a confident nod.

"Four minutes for the main cannons, Darth Nox. Eight for our escort to reach the engagement."

Captain Traest had been at her side for the last six weeks, helping to smooth the transition from warrior and politician to fleet commander. It was a role she would never grow used to, though she _had _gotten better at it. The Dark Council, in a suitably arrogant move, had begun to replace fallen or failed commanders with Sith Lords who had no traditional training in naval strategy.

The Empire had grown desperate, but this seemed an especially questionable decision. Darth Nox had managed to avoid disaster by deferring to her second-in-command more often than not, and Verelan was content to simply be allowed to put his plans into action, regardless of where the glory fell. Few other Sith would be as agreeable a superior as her, and he knew that as well as her.

"Order the escort to break away now, Captain." Darth Nox gestured idly off at the communications section to her right, keeping her vision focused on the flickers of life being snuffed out in the mass of fighting ahead. "If we _need _an escort, we are already beaten."

Traest gave a sharp nod and leaned over the railing to forward the order to one of his runners. Once he stood back up straight, Darth Nox realized her mistake.

"_Vice-Admiral," _she corrected herself.

Traest suppressed a snorting laugh, and tapped the rank chit pinned to his breast. "I often forget myself, Admiral. The promotions come too fast these days." His tone began as one of amusement, but turned sad as his words trailed off. She could see the change in his mood. Not in his face, which was too formless for her to read small expressions, but in his entire being.

"My Master is a member of the Dark Council," said Darth Nox's apprentice, who stood to her right. "You will address her as 'Darth Nox'."

The words came out as a croaking rasp, as far from human as understandable speech could get. She might have forgotten Xalek were standing there, had Traest not been giving the tusked Kaleesh nervous glances every half-minute or so. Xalek, with his imposing size and bat-like face, made the ship's crew uneasy. His reputation as a cruel brute didnt help that impression, but it was one Darth Nox saw little reason to try and alter. It was often a useful motivational tool.

Traest was already sweating bullets, and opened his mouth to offer a hurried amendment to his statement, but Darth Nox raised a hand between the two men.

"I wear two veils now, Apprentice. Vice-Admiral Traest is within the naval chain of command, not that of the Sith Order."

Xalek scoffed. "What is being an Admiral? It is nothing. You have earned your _true_ title by great power and wisdom. It is why I pledged myself to you."

Darth Nox cocked him a wry smile, the corners of which disappeared past the white beads hanging from the trim of her veil. "And that is why you address me as a Sith Lord?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe that Vice-Admiral Traest can appreciate my knowledge of the Force, as you can?"

Xalek scowled, looking downright devilish with slitted yellow eyes narrowed further, then relaxed and let out a series of quick, low breaths. He couldn't truly smile, nor laugh, but Darth Nox had learned that this was something close to that. Xalek turned back to the viewing window, and Traest let out a sigh of relief.

"Two minutes..." Traest gave another wary glance at the Kaleesh. "...Admiral."

Darth Nox nodded slightly, understanding his words perfectly fine but too focused on the distant battle to express more than that. She hated times like these, where the die had been cast and all she could do was watch. In a duel, there was always another move to be made, another tactic to consider. Up here among the stars, her forces were committed, and so was she.

Thousands of lives, all hanging on the hope that Lord Tanomas could buy them enough time. This plan had been formed by Traest and his lower officers, but responsibility, like its more beautiful sister glory, fell squarely on Darth Nox's shoulders. It was a weight she chafed under. She had spent her life, from slavery to Lordship, risking her own life for her own benefit. It was not that she felt any great love for the faceless men and women under her command. What she felt was simple annoyance at being given lives to manage, with so few ways to _keep _them alive.

Another few lights vanished in Darvannis' orbit. It could have happened in the blink of an eye, if Darth Nox were capable of blinking. Two minutes felt like such a long time when she was losing the people under her command - extensions of her will and power. It was a cruel thing, she thought, to be given total power over someone. Because the truth was, you could never completely control another living being.

There will always be times where their thoughts diverge from yours, or a weakness forms within them that cannot be fixed from without. Darth Nox could feel it among her bridge crew, the conflicting fear and excitement. Long ago, powerful Force users had used their abilities to _mend _those weaknesses of mind and turn the tide of battle through sheer force of will. Those techniques had been lost to the mists of time, though. Now, all she could do was watch - and wait.

"Something is wrong," she said softly. It took her a moment to register the words as her own. They had simply slipped out, seeming to come even before the thought that accompanied them. Darth Nox scanned the viewport, but saw nothing other than the storm of death raging above Darvannis. "Update, Vice-Admiral."

Traest rattled off fleet numbers and time estimates, noting no new messages or intercepted communications.

"Lord Tanomas has not sent a notice of engagement?"

Traest hummed thoughtfully to himself for a moment. "We always knew that was likely, Admiral. The communications hubs have been down for days. It benefits us as much as the enemy."

Darth Nox gave the emptiness of space to the right of Darvannis another look, seeing and feeling nothing - not even the stars she knew were there. Still, she could not shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong. It was mere instinct, with nothing in the way of worldly evidence to back it up, but she had learned long ago to trust even the vaguest inkling of danger.

"Bring the ship to a stop. Have the smaller escorts continue forward. Frigate-class and up stays with the _Leviathan."_

Traest relayed the order, and a few moments later the entire bridge shook with a shuddering whine as sublight thrusters roared to life on the fore of the massive ship, slowly bringing it to a halt outside of Darvannis' mass shadow.

A full minute passed, and the battle continued, the smaller escort ships still yet to reach the battle. They soon passed the point that marked the time the _Leviathan_ would have come within firing range, and each additional second brought more Imperial deaths that might have been avoided, were the larger ships allowed to continue forward.

Darth Nox could sense the bridge officers looking up at her uneasily, growing anxious as they watched a battle that should have been an easy win begin to turn against them. And yet, her confidence that she had made the right call only grew.

"Admiral." Traest tugged at the bottom of his officer's coat and cleared his throat as he leaned in to speak. The bridge had grown dead quiet, without even the roar of the ship's engines as background noise. Only a few beeps from the computer terminals broke the silence. "Should we pull the forward groups back? I fear that what we sent forward will only prolong an eventual defeat if we do not fully commit."

Darth Nox was barely listening, her eyes focused on the dead space to the right of Darvannis.

"Admiral?" he said again. She held up a hand, and he went quiet. A few more moments passed, and then she felt it. It was still a mere feeling, but it was not a vague hint of some unknown threat. She recognized immediately what was coming.

"Turn the fleet to warp!" she shouted, her booming voice cracking not from fear, but from the sheer urgency of her command. Traest only stared at her in bewildered shock, seemingly unable to decide if she had gone mad from the pressures of command. Then, he saw what she had felt. Him and everyone else on the bridge.

"New contacts!" came a frantic voice from below. "Four capitals, unknown escort numbers!"

With that, Traest launched into action, shouting and throwing his fist at several officers in turn. To the right of the ongoing battle, new life appeared, dropping out of hyperspace and forming a gleaming ball of light in Darth Nox's vision that only grew larger and brighter as the _Leviathan_ began its slow turn away from Darvannis.

Zakuul's fighters were automated and invisible to her, but the capital ships were staffed by enough human beings that she could make them out just as clearly as her ship's sensors. They were massive things, floating cities of death and destruction that they could not hope to win a pitched battle against - and there were _four_ of them.

Lord Tanomas had failed, far more quickly than Darth Nox had thought possible. His fleet was either utterly destroyed, or had fled before even engaging the Zakuul strike force. Neither option would surprise her.

Morale was poor among the Empire these days, from top to bottom. Some of the more powerful military leaders had fled into the outer territories of the Empire to attempt to set up little fiefdoms of their own while the Empire crumbled. It was part of why the Dark Council had begun to place Sith in charge of fleets, instead of civilian officials. Sith might not have been as soft-minded and cowardly as other men and women, but they were far more concerned with self-preservation. Ultimately, the results would be the same.

"How long to warp?" Darth Nox said.

"Ah..." Traest scanned the flashing computer terminals while the other officers ran back and forth in an organized frenzy, the entire deck focused on bringing the ship to hyperspace as quickly as possible. "Just over five and a half minutes. I've ordered our escort pulled back, and they'll reach us on a warp-ready vector."

Darth Nox frowned. That was _far _too slow. A quarter of the new enemy fleet was breaking away to join the battle above Darvannis, while the remainder surged forward on a heading that would bring them straight into her battle group. What Traest knew, but left unsaid, was that the rest of the ships would be ready to enter hyperspace long before the _Leviathan._ If she ordered them to jump out now, those vessels and crewmen could live to fight another day. But _her_ flagship, and Darth Nox herself, would quickly fall to the superior firepower of the fleet coming to intercept them.

"How long until their largest guns come within range?" she said.

"Well before we're ready to jump," he replied grimly.

It wouldn't matter that they were too far away to be affected by whatever interdictors the enemy had brought to keep them from warping off. Once those four capitals got within range of her lumbering flagship, the _Leviathan _would be shot to pieces.

She needed to buy them time, but there was no way to do so. The vanguard of fighters she had sent forward to pin down the first enemy fleet was committed, and already as good as lost. No one on the bridge even bothered announcing casualty numbers anymore.

The part of her escort she had directed to help them could be sent back to harass the oncoming enemy fleet, but that would not even slow them down. They might be able to bring down a few of the smaller ships, but that meant nothing in a war where Zakuul's productive capacity far exceeded their own. In this conflict, every victory that was not a decisive win for the Empire might as well have been a crushing defeat.

Darth Nox felt helpless. It was a cold feeling, one she hadn't experienced in such fullness since she had left the Sith Academy and its cruel instructors behind. Her fingers went to her lightsaber, and she fingered it instinctively. If there were an enemy standing before her, she could pour every last ounce of her own ferocity and determination into a defiant last stand. But none of her strength or skill mattered in this contest of fleets, with an entire planet as the prize. Not just the planet, she reminded herself, but its incredible productive capabilities.

"Vice-Admiral," she said calmly. "Order all vessels within range to target the construction rings and open fire."

Traest looked at her, utterly aghast. This was not confusion, though. The radiant emotion washing over him told her that he knew full well what her plan was.

"The group we sent forward will be caught in the debris field, Admiral."

Darth Nox turned to face him, the first time she had done so since they had dropped from hyperspace near Darvannis. She was not a physically imposing woman, but that meant little when faced with a full member of the Dark Council, and all of the power that status entailed.

"If this ship falls, recovering the rest of the fleet means nothing. You have your orders, Vice-Admiral."

He opened his mouth as if to object, then swallowed and nodded, unable to do more than mutter a barely-coherent acknowledgement. It wasn't fear or even the chain of command that made him obey, but the simple realization that she was right. If the _Leviathan_ were lost in this battle, it would mean one less capital ship available to the Empire's dwindling naval forces. Fighters could be re-built in a matter of weeks, and there were always more pilots.

Traest shouted out his orders to the crew around him, bringing the long-ranged cannons on the _Leviathan's_ broad underbelly to bear on the factory rings.

"Sir!" exclaimed the woman overseeing the section of manned firing computers. "The debris field won't _stay_ in orbit. Most of it will fall back to Darvannis! "

"You _have_ your orders, Lieutenant!" Traest said. "Is the lock established?"

Before the firing officer could respond, a man spoke up from across the bridge's central aisle. "I've run casualty projections, sir! Assuming all three rings are destroyed, the deaths would be in the hundreds of thousands."

"I didn't ask for casualty projections!" Traest shouted over the railing, his face turning red and voice breaking. "You! You!" He pointed at two idle officers below him. "Relieve the two Lieutenants! Get those guns firing!"

The two men dashed off, one shoving aside the stunned woman while the second removed the other officer from his seat and put on his communications headset. A few moments later, the _Leviathan_ shook with the force of six lascannons, red light streaking across the emptiness of space and colliding with the rings encircling Darvannis.

It took only a single volley, two shots to each ring, for the entire superstructure to erupt in a brilliant flash of light. The explosion itself did no more than take out a few dozen of the Empire's own fighters - Isotope-5 did not combust well in the vacuum of space - but the disintegrating structures soon established a dense field of debris between the approaching Zakuul fleet and Darth Nox's remaining battle group.

"Lock is lost!" exclaimed one of the officers. "They're losing all locks!"

Traest exhaled a long, slow breath and eased back from the railing, watching along with Darth Nox and Xalek as Darvannis moved out of view, and their flagship was pointed off towards distant stars, and the escape they promised. The enemy fleet was still on a fast approach, but they would not clear the debris field in time to establish new targeting solutions.

Despite the minor victory, there were no cheers or audible sighs of relief. Only more dead silence, as every person in the room considered what they would be leaving behind - the remnants of the Imperial strike force, and an entire planet left to suffer under a hailstorm of molten wreckage and volatile chemicals.

Darvannis was lost. Not only to the Imperials and Zakuul, but to the people who now called it home. If it were still habitable after what Darth Nox had just done, it would take decades of devoted clean-up to restore it to something resembling its former self.

"We live to fight another day," said Xalek. He examined her coolly, with unblinking eyes that seemed to see right through a person, just as she herself did. Darth Nox merely hummed in response. "You do not look pleased."

"Command is not like fighting, where passion gives us strength." Darth Nox clasped her hands behind her back, scanning the bridge crew and seeing the confused despair and relief gripping every one of the men and women under her command. "It has no room for pleasure. One cannot let themselves be affected by greed, or hatred, or self-satisfaction."

The ship groaned and lurched underneath her, and the _Leviathan_ made the jump into hyperspace alongside its remaining escort. Within the span of a moment, the overwhelming presence of Darvannis and its bountiful life vanished from the edges of her awareness. With that, the gravity of what she had just done finally struck her - and she squeezed her joined hands.

"And _certainly_ not compassion," she added.

"That seems like it could be bad for your health, Darth Nox."

Ibayo's leg jerked, and she pushed herself up in her chair. She was not on the _Leviathan._ That ship had been lost to war two decades ago. She was seated in the pilot's seat of a much smaller ship, though this one was also buffeted by the ravages of hyperspace. Lack of sleep and sheer exhaustion had caused her to slip into waking dreams while in the middle of speaking to the man lurking behind her.

"What did you call me?" she said to Gamin. He leaned harder on the back of her chair, as if to remind her that he was still there - and still asking questions.

"Darth Nox. Isn't that your title?"

She frowned and looked over the Mantis' computer consoles. The displays were unreadable shapes of weak energy, but she could watch out for warning lights and other indicators of their progress. Over the many years of her life since the war, she had become quite adept at doing things like this without the aid of subordinates.

"It is not. Call me 'Ibayo', as you did before."

"Why? I'm not a Jedi, you know. Not really."

"Because that is my name. My new name."

Gamin released his grip on her headrest and sat down in the co-pilot's seat to her right, then propped up one dust-covered boot on the backup display in front of him. He wore brown pants and a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled up - clothes acquired courtesy of Czerka, while the Meerians had hauled Sunon's ship from the wreckage of that burning tower and made some hasty repairs to the remarkably functional vessel.

"A made-up name, huh?" He gave her a sly smile. "I can understand that."

"Not made up. Stolen."

His smile disappeared and he raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the display half-covered by his foot. Her name was more than a name - even more than an identity. It was important to her. It represented a choice, and an opportunity given to her by a dying woman.

Perhaps that was why Ibayo still remained on the ship of the woman who had kidnapped and nearly killed her. She could not let her name be slandered by the violent murder of a Mandalorian ambassador - a woman of peace.

"So? What do you think?"

Ibayo, who had just put her head back against the headrest to try and slip back into the welcoming arms of sleep, sighed and looked over at him. "Think of what?"

"Taking this ship somewhere without the permission of the owner. It might be bad for your health - _and_ mine."

"I am in no mood to ask permission, and she is in no state to give it."

Sunon had fallen into unconsciousness shortly after their shuttle had landed back on the grounds of Czerka's compound, and had then been rushed to a nearby medical facility. It was quite state of the art, but any care they gave her there presented them with a problem.

Czerka might have been beaten and in the process of fleeing the planet, but there was always the chance that Republic authorities would catch wind of the assailants' identities and send forces to apprehend them. That, or more Mandalorians might have shown up.

She still did not know why her former Apprentice was working with such an unlikely group, and Gamin had only been able to give her bits and pieces of what had happened. The rest would have to wait until their unconscious cargo awoke from her sleep in the bacta tank they'd hauled into the ship's medbay.

"If you are so worried about her, perhaps you should not put your _feet_ on the ship's monitors." Ibayo gestured idly at Gamin, who let out a slight gasp and took his boot off the console. But instead of sitting back in his seat, he squinted at the dust-strewn display and wiped at it with his palm. Then, his eyes went wide.

"I think she's awake."

* * *

The moment awareness returned to Sunon, she knew something was wrong. She couldn't breathe. She could hardly see. Her movements felt sluggish, like there was a weight pressing down on every inch of her body.

She was drowning.

Heart pounding and mind racing, Sunon thrashed and kicked, only to strike a hazy barrier that imprisoned her on every side. She screamed, but water didnt flood in - something was covering her mouth.

Adrenaline still pumping full force, she pushed up from the ground and jammed herself width-wise across her water-filled prison, then drew her foot back and kicked. A muted _'thud' _echoed through the water, but nothing happened. She kicked again and again, until the hollow thumps became a sharp crack that she could feel with the sole of her foot.

One final kick, and she was through. She careened through a broken glass wall in a rush of water, then landed face-first on a cold metal floor. Even though she was out, she still couldn't breathe. Reaching up to her face, she felt something hard and plastic. She pulled, gagging as she tore off a breathing mask with a tube that had been inserted down her throat.

As the mind-numbing surge of fear tapered off, she felt searing pain lance through her leg. Blood rushed from cuts all over her calf, turning the pool of water beneath her a pale shade of red. Shoving herself to her feet and staggering forward, Sunon found support on a very familiar machine - the same brand of autodoc she kept on her ship. Giving a quick look around, she realized this _was _her ship. The only difference was the shattered bacta tank stuck in the once-empty corner of the room.

"You know those slide open, right?"

Sunon whirled back around to see Gamin standing in the doorway, giving a concerned look between her and the tube she'd just broken out of. There was no way to tell _where_ they were, but the low rumble beneath Sunon's feet told her that they were moving through hyperspace.

"What happened? Where are we?" Unable to contain her desperate needs for answers, she dashed out of the room in a splatter of bacta fluid and a flurry of naked limbs.

"It's fine, we won!" Gamin shouted after her, giving chase as she ran to the central stairwell, then up to the top floor of the ship. The moment she came within view of the armory, her heart stopped. The door was open, and the armor stand at the center of the cluttered room and its many shelves was empty.

"My armor..." She spun and turned to Gamin, whose eyes flickered down to her breasts before shooting up to the ceiling. "Where is it?"

Gaze still averted, he leaned towards her and pointed a hand around the left side of the door frame, indicating at a shelf just beside the door. Her gray-and-red armor was shoved unceremoniously between two metal crates, and Sunon gasped before moving in front of the shelf and carefully sliding the pile out onto the floor. Her heart had begun beating again, but far too fast for comfort. Sweat dripped from her brow alongside the fluid from the tank, and her hands trembled as she failed to find what she was looking for.

"Where's the helmet?" she said in a desperate voice. "Where are the gloves?"

Gamin stepped just inside the room and gave her a confused look. "Those mercenaries took them off of you, remember? This is all you were wearing." He pointed a finger at the chestplate in Sunon's hands. Maliss' armor had never looked pristine, but now it was an ugly mess of scorch marks and scratches. The damage could be repaired, and it would still be Maliss' armor - but not if Sunon lost _entire pieces _of it.

Still holding the breastplate, Sunon sat down against one of the shelves and stared at it, feeling a horribly familiar sense of dread welling up within her. Loss, and failure, and shame - a terrible storm of emotions that made her want to scream.

"I'm going to get you some clothes, alright?" Gamin gave her a wary look as he waited for her to respond, and after a few moments of waiting slid the door closed and left.

He returned a minute later, cracking the door before dropping an outfit inside. Sunon tore her eyes away from the armor in her hands and set it down carefully, then put on the clothes he had tossed in. The brown boots and pants fit fine, but the shirt was obscenely tight. She had to roll up the sleeves to her elbows to feel as if she wasn't wearing a child's clothes.

Once she was dressed, her hand went for the door handle, but stopped short. She was tired - more tired than she had been when she had first broken out of the bacta tank. Sunon sat back down, and picked up the breastplate again. In the past, she had often stood in front of the armor stand and stared into the black lens of her aunt's helmet. It helped her think. Looking at this chestpiece did not - it only reminded her of what she had lost.

"You done?" came a muffled voice on the other side of the door. Sunon didn't respond, and a few moments later the door slid open. Gamin wavered in the doorway, then finally stepped inside as Sunon set the piece of armor down and leaned her head back against the edge of the shelf.

"You don't look like someone who just won the sort of fight we did." He gave her a weak smile, his thin veneer of confidence cracking under the withering glare she fixed him with.

"Why are you here?"

Gamin scoffed and folded his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. "Because you just broke out of a million credits worth of medical equipment in a bloody mess."

"Why are you still on my _ship,"_ she sighed. "You said you wanted to disappear. The Meerians couldn't give you one of Czerka's shuttles?"

Gamin pursed his lips and ran his eyes over her, seeming to mull something over in his mind. He was dressed in the same simple outfit as Sunon, though his clothes fit better than hers. She didn't like the way he stared at her, and that feeling only grew stronger when he slid the armory door closed. But instead of turning back to her, he grabbed a long, flat crate on the shelf behind him, then dragged it to the floor where it collapsed with a heavy _'bang'._

"That was heavier than it looked," he said to her with a sheepish grin as he took a seat on it across from her. "Remember when you told me your story?"

Sunon groaned, remembering very vividly, if not very clearly. She had shouted most of it, amidst tears and awful memories. Back then it had been painful, but now it was simply mortifying.

"I told you some of mine. Joined the Jedi Order, found it wasn't for me, so I left. That was eight years ago." She didn't make a sound or even nod as his words trailed off, and Gamin's eyes travelled towards the floor. "I didn't go home after that."

"You have a family?"

She had assumed to be a wandering con-man, without anyone or anything to tie him down. He was young - about her own age - but that didn't mean much in a galaxy so ravaged by war. The tale of a child who grew up never knowing his parents was too cliche to tug at anyone's heart anymore. Sunon at least had Maliss and Ayahe, but now they were gone, too.

"Two living, breathing parents." He looked up and smiled. "At least, last time I checked. That was four months ago. Far as they know, I never left the Jedi Order. I became a full Padawan, or died in some peace-keeping mission, or..."

He sighed and trailed off, waving a hand and sitting back against the shelves behind him. "Who knows. Point is, I couldn't make myself go home after I left the Order."

"Why not?"

Gamin slowly closed his eyes, his smile turning sad as he let out a slight snort of amusement. "That's the stupidest thing of all. I can't even remember. I'm sure I was embarrassed - felt like I had failed them somehow. They would've taken me back, though. I know that."

"Can't you go home now?" Sunon asked. She didn't mean _literally _now, with the two of them pursued as murderers of a Mandalorian ambassador. But Gamin had eight years to return home, and hadn't done so.

"I've thought about it every day since I left, but each year that goes by makes me feel sicker when I imagine it. What would I tell them? _'Hey, long time no see. I know it's been eight years, but I was busy thieving and screwing my way across the galaxy.'_" He laughed and shook his head.

Some people might have laughed along with him - or at him - but Sunon could not. Not when she knew that burden all too well. It was the same heavy shame that kept her from reaching out to her sister, even as she followed the passage of her life like a stalker. It had become painful to even think about Ayahe, and Sunon found that even the few happy memories of their time together had become twisted by the horrible events that separated the two of them.

"That's why I want to say..." Gamin sat up straight, smoothing out his shirt with both hands and tilting his head up proudly. "Thank you."

Sunon gave him an odd look. "For what?"

"For the first time in eight years, I feel like I can go home with my head held high. We'd cry and hug, and my parents would ask _'Where have you been? What have you been doing?'_ and I'd say _'Oh you know, not a lot. But did you hear about Bandomeer? Those corporate assholes getting kicked off the planet? That was me. Genuine hero stuff_._'_"

Despite the scratched and burnt reminder of her failure cradled in her arms, Sunon found herself laughing. It wasn't more than a dry chuckle, but it was enough to get a genuine smile from the man seated across from her.

"You're going home, then?" she asked.

He pressed his lips together and waved a hand through the air. "You know, if I _wasn't_ wanted for murder. But once we get that sorted out? Yeah."

"We?" she said uneasily.

Gamin shrugged and rose from his seat. "Unless you still plan on kicking me off. Seems like we're fighting an army. It'd be a hell of a lot easier if we did it together - even more if we did it without shooting each other."

He extended a hand to Sunon, and with great effort heaved her upright. She wasn't sure if that last bit was a dig at _her,_ for shooting Ibayo, or a self-deprecating remark directed at himself. He probably didn't even _remember_ that he'd shot her in the thigh.

Sunon tried to pull her hand away from his, but to her surprise he wouldn't release it. He gave her hand a shake, and looked up at her with a smile that gleamed bright in the center of his stubbled jaw.

"I guess you're not working alone anymore."

At those words, Sunon's breath caught in her throat. She didn't know why they affected her so strongly, but tears began to well in her eyes at such a speed that she was forced to look down at his hand and blink her eyes clear of them before he could notice.

"It'll be hard," she said.

Gamin made a dismissive noise. "With a Sith Lord on our side? They don't stand a chance."

And with that, all of the poignant emotion of the moment vanished. Sunon groaned and threw her head back, letting her hand slip from Gamin's.

"I'm not a Sith Lord_._ I can't even use the Force. I told you this - _Ibayo_ told you this."

When she looked back down at him, she saw that his mouth had fallen open slightly, and he was pointing towards the door with an uncertain expression.

"Oh, did you not know?"

"Know what?" she snapped. "What are you talking about?"

Gamin arched his back and let out a slow, obnoxious laugh. "It'd probably be simpler to have this chat all three of us." He moved to her side and put a hand in the small of her back, attempting to usher her from the room, but she stood fast against his touch and glared at him until he removed his hand.

"That was me being friendly!" he called after her, allowing a short distance to form between them before following.


	11. What If

Ayahe was no stranger to working in labs. She had spent the greater part of her life working in them, and felt more at home among those delicate devices and sterile surfaces than she did anywhere else. These were surroundings she was used to. What she wasnt accustomed to was being watched by half a dozen minders as she worked, half a dozen sets of eyes watching her every movement.

"You must not corrupt the sample," Ivalis said sharply into her ear.

The white-tuniced human was the only other woman in the room, and the only Mandalorian not wearing a set of dark blue plasteel armor. Indeed, she seemed to be the only person aboard the ship - other than its owner - who wasnt a soldier of some variety. She was middle-aged, with frizzy blonde hair done up in a tight bun, and wore an ocular enhancer over one eye that made her look as if she were always peering through an opaque magnifying glass.

"You have made that abundantly clear."

Ayahe took the reddened blade in two gloved hands and inserted it into the clear tube on the table in front of her, then closed the open lid. She then turned to the computer terminal beside it, and begin the careful process of maneuvering the rack-mounted operating arms within the tube. They descended on the blade's handle and scraped at it lightly, knocking bits of dried blood into a glass vial held by a third arm. Samples had already been taken from the blood on the blade by Ivalis, who had quicjly identified it as belonging to Nara Jendri. What she hadnt been able to do was get a viable sample from the separate patch of blood on the hilt, which was far less bountiful. Ayahe had pleaded with Koras to let her attempt to isolate a sample, and he had relented.

Ayahe had accompanied Koras Jendri aboard his flagship on the promise of being able to insert herself into the hunt for her sister. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but the level of surveillance they heaped on her had her doubting she'd be able to do anything that would prevent them from finding her sister and bringing her to 'justice'.

The thought of Sunon killing anyone brought a disbelieving frown to her face each time she entertained it. Sunon had her difficulties over the years, but killing was quite a leap from running low-level jobs with street gangs. Cold-blooded murder was downright absurd.

"Will that be enough?" Ivalis eyed the vial doubtfully as Ayahe retracted the robotic arms from the sword and opened the containment tube.

"Would you like me to take more?" Ayahe said with a frown she didnt bother to hide, taking the vial in hand and walking it over to another table-mounted device. She inserted it into a receiving slot and closed up the machine, then stepped back and waited as the vial was filled with the solution she prepared and then spun about in a centrifuge. Ivalis' attention remained on her, ever watchful for any duplicity in the process Ayahe had laid out for her so thoroughly. That was annoying, but acceptable. The last thing Ayahe wanted was for the Mandalorians to cry foul when they saw results that didnt fit their preconceived notions of what had happened on Taris.

The machine whirred to a stop, and Ayahe took the vial of pink fluid to another table, and a petris dish set in front of a DNA analyzer. She opened the cap of the clear container, poured the fluid in, then slid it into the machine's slot and sat down on a stool.

"What now?" Ivalis milled awkwardly around the setup that had been prepared for Ayahe.

"Now, we wait. It will take time."

"How much time?"

Ayahe glared at her with obvious exhaustion. "Several minutes. It will alert us when the replication process is complete."

Ivalis paced for a few moments more, then sat down at the end of the table. The Mandalorian's insistent questioning wasnt solely that of someone who had been told to ensure Ayahe's process was forensically sound. Ayahe had worked with many peoplen like her during her time as an engineer. People who became hostile to a proposed solution because they had not thought of it, or because they could not understand it. They were the worst sort of co-worker, and their mere presence had caused Ayahe to switch employers more than once. She had trouble enough keeping herself from talking down to those who were polite but stupid. That was a genuine fault, and one Ayahe had begun to work on recently. But coddling those who took pride in their ignorance? She would not stoop that low.

Just as Ivalis prepared another impatiently huff, the round door to the hall outside slid into the wall. Koras stepped inside, wearing the same military dress blues Ayahe had first met him in. He was old enough to nearly match the height of some of the shorter guards escorting him, but still young enough to look like a boy playing dress up. The way he constantly pulled at the hem of his tunic didnt help that impression. He had pale blue eyes and neatly-combed blond hair, a common phenotype among whatever human colonists settled Mandalore millenia ago. At one point, the Mandalorians had been a multispecies warrior cultural dominated by the inhuman Taung - a race that was now all but extinct.

Koras gave a quick glance at the sword that had murdered his sister, his eyes going wide and then narrowing angrily. He quickly turned his attention to the two women seated at the other table, clasping his hands behind his back and looking at the DNA analyzer with great interest. Ivalis shot to her feet and gave a shallow bow, making room for him to approach the device.

"Were you able to find anything?" he said.

"I will, your Excellency." She rose from her chair and stood beside Ivalis. "There was not enough blood on the weapon's hilt for a standard scan of the genetic material. Nanomachines are breaking apart the genetic material in the sample, analyzing it, and replicating it. Within minutes there will be enough to test."

Koras eyed the machine curiously. "Why not have the nanomachines test it?"

"They are stupid things," replied Ayahe. "Old technology used during the Jedi Schism to replicate Kolto for use by the Republic military."

Ivalis snorted. "It is junk science, your Excellency. I would not put any stock in-"

Ayahe shot her a sharp glare and moved between the boy and technician. "You examined the process yourself and found it sound. Do you have genuine criticism, or only snide remarks?"

The expression Ivalis wore was one of a woman who wasn't accustomed to being talked to in such a way. Least of all in front of someone who made the top twenty list for Mandalore's wealthy and powerful. She looked to Koras in silent pleading for some support from her liege, but he merely studied her curiously and waited for a reply that did not come.

"Leave us," he said to Ivalis. A sweep of his eyes across the room carried the message to all the other technicians and the handful of assembled guards, who bowed and made their way to the room's exit. The two who had escorted Koras inside stopped short of the doors and let them close, keeping themselves out of earshot but well within reach of their lord. Koras sat down on the stool Ivalis had occupied, and stared thoughtfully at the genetic material analyzer that seemed to hum along thoughtfully.

"I want to know what makes a person go bad," he said to Ayahe.

It took her only a moment to pick up his train of thought and carry it forward on the track she had already established.

"She is Sith. It is in her blood."

Koras pursed his lips in a tight frown and shook his head. "I don't like that explanation. It is too simplistic."

"Simple explanations are often the best ones."

He drew in a deep breath and twisted around in his seat so that he was facing Ayahe, but continued to scan the room in idle thought.

"What was your sister like in the past? Did you know what she would become?"

The question was phrased in a way that bordered on the accusatory, but Ayahe didn't get the sense that she was being interrogated. These were the musings of a boy who wanted to understand why someone would take the innocent life of the person he loved.

"I would not say it was obvious. Perhaps I was blind to it because the changes were so gradual."

Ayahe went on to relay stories from her sister's childhood, from delinquent acts of minor theft that could be brushed off or laughed at, to unprovoked violence and other antisocial acts that pointed to something dark growing within her heart.

"Were you not there?" Koras said partway through one of her tales.

"What do you mean?"

"You always talk as if you only heard what happened after the fact. Were you often away from home?"

Ayahe nodded. She had been since she was old enough to obtain the right qualifications and receive gainful employment with a reputable engineering company. It wasn't wanderlust or a need for the new that drove her to visit home so rarely, but something far more shameful. Something she would never admit to others, and could barely acknowledge in her own mind.

She had hated Sunon.

"Your sister will not be executed," said Koras, bringing Ayahe back from the depths of the past. "I have decided that no one should lose their family. She will spend her life in prison for her crimes, but she will live."

"T-thank you, your highness," Ayahe stammered out, drawing a satisfied nod from the boy. She had no intention of letting her sister rot in a Mandalorian prison, but needed to continue to play the part of Koras' steadfast ally. It was a lie she was having more and more trouble maintaining, and would have been far easier if he were the spoiled brat someone of his heritage so often grew into. Instead, she had earned the favor of a noble and generous young man whose aims were no less just than her own.

A long beep from the machine had Koras twisting in his seat and Ayahe rushing over to examine the readout. Koras hurriedly asked her to convey the results, but she insisted that one of his technicians do so to undermine any accusations of tampering. Koras called Ivalis back in, who gave him the news with a self-satisfied grandeur in her tone. The only blood on the murder weapon was that of Nara Jendri, and a female Sith Pureblood.

"This proves it," said Ivalis.

Ayahe fixed her with an intense and inquisitive state. "Proves what?"

"That the Sith woman is the murderer!" Ivalis gestured at the genetic analyzer. "She fled the scene, injured multiple Tarisians on her way off planet, and caused millions of credits worth of property damage. Now, we have her blood on the murder weapon."

"Why would a professional assassin trigger their own boobytrapped weapon?" Ayahe said to both Mandalorians, letting her eyes linger on Koras' to make him truly ponder the question. "You have been looking at this from the wrong angle. The true murderer is whoever the genetic lock in that blade is coded to. If we reverse-engineer that, we can identify the owner - and your sister's killer."

Koras watched and listened patiently as Ayahe excitedly detailsd her plans, which became so technical that she should have realized he could no longer follow them. When she finished speaking, he simply nodded and waved his two guards forward from the lab's exit.

"Guards," he said calmly. "Put this woman in a holding cell."

* * *

"What is this?"

Sunon circled the glowing holographic display at the center of her ship's command room. A celestial body was projected overhead, one with no large bodies of water nor identifiable cities. A moon, judging by the small size - just under four thousand kilometers around, judging by the grid laid over it.

"That," said Gamin. "Is Myar II. It's a jungle moon, orbits a gas giant of the same name."

"Yeah, I can see that. Why are you showing me it?"

"Because of *this*." Gamin drove a finger down on the console's keyboard, and the moon replaced was a garbled mess of visual static that occasionally coalesced into something resembling a coherent image. "No, hang on. Give me a moment."

Sunon sighed and leaned forward on the other side of the display. Ibayo - or Darth Nox, rather - skirted the edges of the room, her dark silence taking on a more sinister tone now that Sunon knew what she had been. The woman seemed so unassuming, if such a thing could be said of a Force user. When Gamin had first let slip her identity, Sunon had reacted by accusing the other woman of lying to her. Ibayo had, quite annoyingly, responded by pointing out that she had never claimed to be a Jedi, and no one had asked. Sunon had nearly retorted that the woman wore the brown robes of a Jedi ascetic, not the black ones of a Sith. Luckily, she had realized how stupid an argument that would be before she used it.

After a few moments of work, the holographic mess assumed the shape of a head and torso which rotated slowly above the projector. From the neck down, it looked human - though the figure wore armor too heavy to truly discern such a thing. The head, on the other hand, was clearly inhuman. The alien's face was long, with a chin that terminated in a sharp point. Ridges ran over its wide forehead and over its prominent cheekbones, and a heavy brow ridge sat over two softly glowing eyes. Its nose was squished so flat as to nearly be nonexistent, with two holes for nostrils and the slight folds above drawn up into a permanent sneer. As the image rotated around, it revealed the five tentacles hanging off of the back of the man's carapaced heads. Vestigial feathers grew from the fleshy hair, and some smaller tufts ran from the back of his neck to his jawline, like avian sideburns.

"That Mandalorian you shot had a comlink, and had apparently plugged it into his shuttle's computer before he arrived on Bandomeer. We pulled this from the data cache."

Sunon nodded along absent-mindedly, staring at the bizarre-looking alien in Mandalorian armor. She had not been the one to shoot her attacker. Zolamassis, the Meerians' leader, had rescued her as she stared down the barrel of her opponent's blaster. At first, she had been happy just to still be alive. Now, though, she felt shame. One Mandalorian merc had nearly killed her, and she wanted to take on an army of them led by a man who could do everything she couldn't.

"That looks Mandalorian, doesn't it? I'm not sure about the mask, though." Gamin gestured at the figure's armor, and the clan symbol painted in white on the left shoulder - a taloned claw wreathed in flame.

"It's not a mask," Sunon replied confidently. "That's his face. He's a Taung." Or her face, Sunon noted to herself. There was no way to discern seconday sexual characteristics beneath the heavy armor worn by the hologram, and she didn't even know if the ape-like Taung had anything like the breasts of near-human species.

"Taung?" Ibayo made her way to the better-lit center of the room to get a close look at the hologram. "They are extinct, are they not?"

"I thought so," replied Sunon. At least, Maliss had made it sound that way in the few times she had mentioned the alien race in passing. At one point, all Mandalorians had been Taung. Now the former were a dying breed, and the latter either completely dead or close to it. Sunon didn't know enough about the Taung themselves to have any strong feelings about them as a people, but the fact that they'd spawned a culture as stupidly brutal as that of Mandalore was enough to make that alien face appear even uglier in her eyes.

"Now, there was nothing about who this guy *is*, but this reconstructed image was stored alongside some other files." Gamin tapped away at the keyboard, and the image disappeared. In its place rose a holographic representation of a data structure, which Sunon manipulated with deft flicks of her fingers. Most of the files contained information on the moon itself, but none were about the man. Then she found a folder containing a series of law enforcement reports, compiled from across the galaxy, but all concerning Myar II. It took a few minutes of reading to find the common thread, and even then she hardly understood what this all pointed to.

Each report had been filed by visitors to Myar II, who had all come to the moon for the sole purpose of big game hunting. Apparently, that was all the place had to offer. The reports described the visiting parties being harassed by a marooned psychopath, a hyper-intelligent ape who lurked in the treetops, a vengeful spirit of the moon's ecosystem, or any number of other terrified fantasies. In any case, the wealthy tourists were all run off by something that didn't want them there. There were disappearances, too - people who went to Myar II and never came back. Whether they were killed by local fauna or this mysterious hunter, the police reports don't bother to speculate.

"You think they're searching for this Taung?" Sunon said.

"It makes sense, right?" Gamin waved at the display, as if the evidence spoke for itself. "They were trying to piece together his movements on Myar. It seems like they got pretty close."

"What about the computers on the Mandalorians' shuttle?" said Sunon. "Could you not access it?"

Gamin and Ibayo exchanged an uneasy glance. "That shuttle left the Czerka tower right after we set down. You were unconscious by then."

Sunon looked to Ibayo. "Your 'Apprentice'?"

She nodded gravely, having already told Sunon the general nature of their past Master-Apprentice relationship. It was hard to picture this unassuming monk as a Sith Lord, and harder still to imagine her as the sort of person who could keep that monstrous Kaleesh in line. Maybe she couldn't, and that was why Ibayo had to divest herself of her former student. The former Sith had been evasive when pressed on exactly what had happened, and Sunon had been forced to let the matter drop.

"So for now, this is our only lead." Gamin brought back up the image of the armored Taung. "For some reason, they want this guy."

"Tralus wants to kill him." Sunon stepped back and crossed her arms. "Just like my aunt, and just like Nara Jendri."

Gamin's jaw clenched at the mention of the woman who had died in his arms, but the pained expression lasted only a moment before being covered up by his usual casual confidence. He always bore the slightest hint of a smirk, which Sunon had gradully come to realize was a deliberate affectation. Somehow, that made it just a little bit less annoying.

"Then we get to him first," said Ibayo.

Sunon clicked her teeth dismissively. "And then what? Tralus is still out there, that Kaleesh is still working for him, and were still wanted for a political assassination."

"But then we'd have something they want." Gamin strode around the display and moved in between the two women. "We dont need to fight an army of Mandalorians. Your Apprentice was the one who murdered Nara. We lure him in with the Taung, capture him, and take him to Republic space. They'll have their murderer, and we'll be in the clear."

"If they believe our story," said Sunon.

Ibayo scoffed. "That is the smallest problem in your plan. Capturing a trained Sith? That is not a simple thing."

"Well, she caught you, didnt she?" Gamin pointed at Sunon.

That was true, but he didnt know how Sunon had done so - by threatening a young boy with a gun. Ibayo looked at Sunon, and an unspoken conversation passed between them. The moment was over before Gamin could notice it.

"Maybe it is possible," Ibayo finally said.

"Yes!" Gamin leapt off the floor a few inches, clapped his hands, then grabbed both women by the wrist. "I sense some lingering tension here. That's not how partnerships last."

With a great effort of straining grunts he forced the pair's fingertips together, and they reluctantly shook hands. Then, he turned his eyes to Sunon.

"Dont you have something you want to say?"

Sunon pursed her lips and turned to the veiled woman whose hand she held so loosely. "I am... sorry for shooting you."

"Good! Progress." Gamin released his hold on the two, and the handshake ended without a word from Ibayo. It was hard to tell if she had accepted the strained apology, and harder still to tell if she had ever been upset about it in the first place.

"How about you?" Sunon said to Gamin.

He gave her a curious look. "What do you mean?"

She pointed at her thigh, which had been healed by her dip in the bacta tank. "You shot me!"

Gamin smiled uneasily, looking from her to Ibayo, then back again. "You're still mad about that?"

She snorted in mock disgust and shook her head. "So you can shoot me, but not someone who has it coming."

Gamin had failed to pull the trigger on that Czerka guard when they first entered the compound. From what he claimed, he'd later shot one of the Mandalorians in the gut - though that sounded like it had been half by accident, and not from any deep conviction to do what was necessary to win. That kind of softness was liable to get one of them killed.

"I'm not sure im meant for blasters," Gamin said. "Im more of a talker, negotiator, lover..." He trailed off, wheeling his hand about in the air as he spoke.

"Yeah, I know youre not meant for blasters." Sunon turned to Ibayo, ignoring the not-so-subtle lingering of eyes that Gamin fixed her with. "Put that old training to use. Show him how to use the Force."

Sunon could hear Gamin's excitement flare as he drew in a sharp breath of air. From the corner of her eye, she saw that he was watching the silent Ibayo with wide eyes and pursed lips. Clearly he thought it was a great idea. Sunon wasnt quite as thrilled about it, but cultivating that wildcard was one of the few things they could do to tip future fights in their favor.

Ibayo looked between the two, then directed her attention at Sunon. Her lips drew down in a slight frown that looked like a fierce scowl on the usually unemotional woman.

"Absolutely not."

With that, she spun about on her heels and left the room, leaving the other two to gawp silently. Sunon had hunted her, imprisoned her, and shot her, but this was what it took to get something resembling an angry outburst. Sunon was surprised, but Gamin looked downright griefstricken by her refusal. She didnt know what fantasies of power he had concocted in the few moments where her training seemed a real possibility, but letting go of them looked painful.

"Come with me," said Sunon. "I've got the next best thing."

* * *

It had been three years since Gamin had first arrived on the alpine planet of Tython to train at the Jedi Academy. In all that time, he had yet to make anything resembling an arch-rival. There were students he didn't like, sure - teachers, too - but no one of whom the very sight of sent his heart pounding and fists clenching.

That all changed a month ago, when the instructors' lessons to the trainees had taken on a more practical bent. Since then, Gamin had found himself face-to-face with his new worst enemy day after day. They met each morning in the training grounds outside the academy's main temple, and the image of that hated thing stuck in his mind long after he left it behind, often lingering even in his dreams.

It wasn't a person, though. It wasn't even one of the sparring droids. It was a rock, as dumb and lifeless as any other rock you could clamber over on your way up the many snow-capped mountains ringing the academy. The rock in question sat at the food of a wooden tower some thirty feet high. At the top of the tower was a wooden bowl, just the right shape and size to hold the boulder. An initiate was supposed to pick up the rock with the Force, then place it in the bowl. Very simple, but far from easy.

The task would not have been so daunting if that rockr werent a very literal boulder in his path. Gamin - and the other students clustered around him - were nearing the tail end of the period where they would he shunted off to various advanced classes for more specialized training. For months, his class had been winnowed down by tests like this. Students who couldnt pass muster were sent to train as diplomats or archaeologists or librarians, while the rest went on to become warriors and military leaders.

Gamin was the only one left.

Not the last in the class, by any means. There were thirty seven other initiates destined for combat training, but they had all lifted the boulder with quite a bit of strain but little serious trouble. This was the final task, a gatekeeper to weed out any who had snuck by on cleverness and guile, like Gamin. He was the weakest among these students, an admission that brought him mixed pride and shame.

Gamin took a deep breath in and shook his arms to loosen them up, making a big show of preparing to have another go at the challenge. Each of the thirty secen students watched with great interest, not a snicker or mumbled insult making its way from the group. In some ways, he hated that. There was something appealong about being the despised underdog, but not so much when you were the pitied runt of the litter. Their stares betrayed a begrudging respect for his persistence, which underlied a greater truth - that they fully expected him to fail.

The Jedi Master Hardastim stood nearby, a bald man with brown skin and browner robes. He watched patiently with arms folded into his sleeves, giving Gamin all the time he needed to center himself within the Force. Not that such a thing would make a difference. For whatever reason, Gamin's connection to that unknowable power wasnt like it was for these other intiiates. When they heaved that boulder up onto the tower with a single fluid motion, it was like they were working muscles that he didnt even have. Everything was easy for them, and he had always had to work harder to keep up.

Harder, and smarter.

"Ok!" Gamin exclaimed, taking another breath in through his mouth and letting that crisp morning air flood his lungs. It was always cold there, though that wasnt always a bad thing. It depended on how he was feeling. Sometimes it was energizing, sometimes it was oppressive. Today, it was just distracting.

He turned to face the boulder at the base of the tower, then widened his stance and thrust his open palms up into the air. The boulder didnt budge. His teeth clenched, his arms quaked, and his boots sunk into the frozen ground an inch or two as an immense weight met his upturned palms.

But still, the boulder did not move.

Harder and harder he pushed, his hands moving up above his head as the strain in his lower back became nearly unbearable. Then, a sharp 'crack' broke through his grunts of exhertion. It was not his bones or the rock that broke, but the tower itself. Gamin stumbled backwards, reasserting his grip on the bowl he had detacched from the top of the tower. The teacher and students watched in bewilderment as he lowered the bowl onto the ground, then used the Force to roll the boulder into it. Once the rock was over the lip and came to rest in the center, he turned to his teacher and beamed proudly with arms outstrstchede.

No one said a word.

"You said to place the rock in the bowl!" He turned slightly and gestured at the joined objects. "I put the rock in the bowl!"

The students groaned, as if he'd just told the worst joke in the world. A few laughed, and more waved their hands at him dismissively before turning their attention to Master Hardastim. The man gave the boulder a long, thoughtful look, one that had Gamin's heart swelling with hope. Then, Hardastim looked to Gamin and began to walk towards him, and his heart sank. The expression the man wore was one of stern disapproval, mixed with the masked melancholy of a doctor about to deliver bad news to a patient.

"This test is not a joke," he said to Gamin.

Gamin sputtered for a moment and gestured at the tower. "I wasnt making a joke. I did it the only way I could."

Indeed, this was his seventh attempt. The others had ended with the boulder somewhere between three and five feet off of the ground. Nowhere near the thirty feet he needed to lift it.

"I am sorry." Hardastim's well-contained frustration vanished, completely replaced by a comforting expression that was somehow far scarier. "If you cannot do it, then you cannot. There is no shame in that." The instructor's hand fell on his shoulder, and Gamin felt his knees buckle under a weight more imagined than actual. "Come to the council chambers once your lessons for the day have finished. I and the other instructors would like to speak with you."

If a mere touch was enough to make Gamin's legs weaken, that request was nearly enough to make him collapse right then and there. The instructor turned and told the other students to continue onto their next class, leaving Gamin to stare blankly off into space as his mind reeled with what he'd been told. This was it - they were going to tell him that he'd had enough chances to get put on track to become a warrior. By the end of today, he'd be put on a path that ended with him dusting off books within the temple's vast libraries. He pictured himself stuck in those halls for decades, his back becoming noticeably more hunched until he looked right at home among the other wizened librarians.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Saber practice and afternoon meditations passed far too quickly for Gamin's taste, with him unable to focus on anything but the meeting that lay ahead of him. Once they were released for the day by another instructor, the other initiates left to spend the rest of the day however they chose, and Gamin made his way through the white-walled corridors of the temple into the main chamber, then up a winding flight of stairs that took him to the second level and the council chambers. Two armored guards wielding gleaming halberds stood on either side of the door, and one politely instructed him to wait on a bench off to the side while the current meeting concluded.

Muffled voices came from the chamber behind him, occasionally taking on tones so heated that the words became understandable. Gamin began to slide off his bench to press his ear to the door and hear what had brought Jedi Masters to anger, but a sharp look from one of the guards put him right back on the bench. A few minutes passed, and one of the guards received a call on his shoulder-mounted communicator. After a hasty and static-filled conversation, the two men departed in a clanking chorus of flexisteel, leaving Gamin alone in the upper level of the grand hall.

He made his move immediately, jumping up from the bench and going to the doors. After pressing his ear to the door, he discovered that the Tython oak it was hewn from was simply too thick to hear through. With shaking hands he gripped the handle for one door, and leaned backward. The door lurched open sharply, and he pushed forward to stop the door's momentum from carrying it too far forward. It had only opened a few inches - perfect.

The voices were clearer now, and pressing his eye to the narrow opening he had created allowed him to put faces to them. Eight Jedi Masters sat at a crescent-moon table, each representing some aspect of the Academy's portfolio. Master Sha sat on the left, a battle-hardened and age-softened mountain of a man whose cracked face looked to be chiseled from the mountains of Tython. The image of a granite guardian was only enhanced by the way he constantly crossed his arms and rolled back his shoulders, no matter if he was standing or sitting. Opposite him, on the far end of the other wing, was Master Tavala. The gentle historian leaned forward on the table with hands buried in oversized green sleeves, and was talking animatedly with her stern counterpart. Gamin knew the names and faces of the remaining six, but not those of the being they were fixated on.

A ninth figure stood before the others. An inhuman figure, tall and impossibly thin with white skin that shone like a Manaanian pearl. It wore the unassuming brown robe of the other Masters, and its hairless head sat atop a neck that seemed too fragile to support such a weight.

"Insanity," said Master Sha. His chair creaked as he leaned forward, turning his attention from Master Tavala to the standing figure. "Or something darker than that. I'm not sure which, and I don't really care." With a slight movement that only Gamin could see because of his angle, Sha slipped a hand into a fold in his robes and gripped the hilt of his lightsaber.

"Let us calm ourselves," said Tavala. She swept her gaze over the assembled Masters when she made the plea, but it was clearly meant for her brasher counterpart in particular. "Master Bokete-"

Sha forced out an angry laugh. "Master? This council should strip her of her titles here and now. How can you humor this?"

Tavala waited patiently for him to finish, then gestured at their alien guest. "She came here because she seeks guidance. That means there is room to dissuade her from this path."

The wry humor in Sha's expression departed, leaving only anger. Gamin had never seen a Master look at someone the way Sha glared at the alien. "No, she's here because she hopes to lure us into her path. I'm an idiot for sitting here and listening to this."

Another Master nodded along as Sha spoke, and finally broke into the argument. "Master Bokete, you would undo everything the Republic fought and strived for over the last twenty years. You would risk throwing this galaxy back into darkness on..." He sat back and swept a hand through the air. "A vague hope?"

It was more of a dressing-down than a real question, and the standing alien seemed as uncertain as Gamin on whether or not she should bother responding. After a few moments of rapt silence in which all eyes fell on her, she turned her head towards the Master who had addressed her.

Her face was as inhuman as her body, with no distinguishing features besides two large black eyes that sat above two slotted nostrils and a mouth. Her eyes were as black as space, save for her blue irises, which glowed against the blackness like twin stars.

"I would not throw this galaxy back into darkness," she said softly. "I would bring it full circle."

Her voice was angelic, lyrical, and gentle in such a way that it seemed to undercut the building tension in the room. Even Master Sha drew his hand away from his weapon, though his eyes did not leave Bokete.

"The answer is no," Sha said with grim finality. "I can't believe that it even needs to be said. Does anyone here disagree?"

A few of the Masters spared quick glances at each other, but within a few seconds all were shaking their heads in silent affirmation.

"Such is the council's will," said Tavala. "Will you heed it?"

Bokete looked from the other Masters to Tavala, and a look of pained betrayal crossed her face before hardening into serene resolve.

"I will heed Master Sha's recommendation, and resign my post. The Order will no longer be responsible for my actions."

A hushed roar went through the seated Masters. Only Sha remained silent and still. Eventually the conversation between the seated Jedi went quiet, and focus returned to Bokete.

"You can not return to Tython," said one of the Masters. "Nor can you profess to walk the path of the Jedi."

Bokete nodded, and the Masters began to discuss drier matters of who should assume her responsibilities, and how she would depart Tython.

"Can't return to Tython?" Sha said darkly. "She isn't leaving."

At that, the room fell silent. A new tension formed between Sha and Bokete, one that drew all eyes in the room. Master Tavala rose from her chair and raised her hands in a calming motion.

"It is not our right to keep her here," said Tavala. "We cannot do more than we have already done."

"Blind fools!" shouted Sha. The righteous anger in his voice shook the bookshelves lining the high walls and nearly sent Gamin sprawling back from the doorway. "Trillions dead, planets consumed, and you want to talk about rules and laws?"

Sha shot up from his chair, throwing it backwards into the floor. He thrust his right hand into his robes and pulled out his lightsaber, then activated the light-blue blade. The left arm of his robe hung limply at his side, hiding the stump at his shoulder. He had repeatedly eschewed robotic replacements, telling Initiated and Masters alike that he had kept his humanity during the war, and wasn't about to give it up afterwards.

With his blade held high, Sha stepped nimbly onto the table and leapt towards Bokete. A chorus of shouts went up around the table, and each Master reacted in his or her own way. Tavala used words - but neither Sha nor Bokete were listening. Others drew their own weapons, war veterans who knew only one way to respond to a crisis. Others simply stood dumbly and watched, unable to believe how quickly the situation had fallen apart.

Sha thrust his saber down at Bokete. She stepped to the right, putting herself on his lame side and forcing him to swing at her with broad, awkward arcs. She thrust her closed fist into his chest, and it was over. A yellow lightsaber blade formed on the other side of Sha, emanating forth from the hilt that Bokete had surreptitiously drawn into her hand without anyone seeing - least of all Gamin. Sha's jaw dropped open in utter shock, and Bokete deactivated her weapon, allowing him to fall to the floor.

Seeing their brother fall was all it took for the other Masters to find some courage. They fell on Bokete in unison, and were about to strike when the alien deactivated her lightsaber.

The fight was over. Everything after that was a blur for Gamin. Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, and he was spun around to be met by the face of Master Hardastim. His teacher's focus quickly turned to the murder that had just occurred, and Gamin was left to wander about in a daze while the core of the Academy was gripped by chaos and uncertainty.

He never did find out what happened to Master Bokete - a Kaminoan, as he learned some years later - nor would anyone talk about what had brought her and Master Sha to blows. A week after that day, Gamin had his meeting with the council. It went as he both expected and feared, with him put on a track that led nowhere but the dank recesses of the Academy's libraries and lecture halls. A week after that, he was gone, stowed away on the first freighter that was headed to a core planet.

In the end, he traded purpose and belonging for adventure and independence. Having experienced only one path, it was hard to say whether or not he had chosen poorly. Now, ten years later, he was being faced with another choice. One he felt compelled to give ample consideration too, given the twists and turns his life had taken thus far.

"It's Sith," Gamin said flatly. He and Sunon sat on a bench in the Mantis' training room. With a single bedroom on the ship and Ibayo already occupying the cargo bay, he had taken to throwing sheets and a pillow out on the padded mat to gain a few hours of uncomfortable sleep. Sunon wasn't fond of having her space turned into sleeping quarters, but she had balked at the alternatives - particularly them doubling up in one bed.

"So?" she said impatiently.

In Gamin's palms sat a red pyramidal holocron, a computerized teaching device constructed by Force users to pass onto their students. Jedi and Sith alike had both passed down countless such artifacts over the years, and many had found their way into the hands of private collectors, especially after the Eternal Empire's looting of both Orders' holy worlds. How Sunon had gotten her hands on one, he could only guess. He could ask, but was worried he might not like the answer.

"Well..." He raised the holocron up to eye level and eyes it cautiously. "That means it's evil."

Sunon glared at him from the corner of his vision. "I'm Sith. And how can a computer be evil?"

"The Masters said-"

Sunon scoffed derisively. "I thought you left the Jedi Academy before they had a chance to brainwash you."

"I wasn't brainwashed," he shot back. "They warned us about the lure of power, and the Dark Side."

"But you left the Order."

"Because I didn't want to be a librarian, not because I disagreed with their teachings. Many of the Masters were very wise."

"So you don't want power?" Sunon rose from the bench and stood in front of him with hands on her hips. "You don't want to win?"

Gamin lowered the holocron into his lap and met her gaze. "That depends on what it costs me."

She gave him a sneer that was both playful and disdainful. That, combined with her blood-red skin, gave him the impression that he was bargaining with a demon of temptation.

"I thought you were a gambler." Sunon bent over and twisted the pyramid's cap, causing the computer within to hum to life. "It holds information, not spirits."

A ball of faint red light appeared above it, then brightened and coalesced into the form of a pureblood Sith wearing a black and gold tunic that made him look more like a senior statesman than a reclusive student of the Dark Side. He had slicked-back hair and a world-weary look that carried through the poor resolution of the holographic display. This wasn't the sinister figure Gamin had expected to be met with.

"Spoils of war," Sunon explained. "Maliss said that my mother claimed it from a political opponent's estate."

"Fine, I'll talk to it." Gamin leveled a finger at each other. "But if I feel anything weird happening, I'm throwing it out an airlock."

The threat was made half-seriously, but Sunon seemed to take it entirely as a jest. She cracked a rare smile and turned to leave the room, stopping at the threshold only when Gamin called to her.

"Aren't you going to stay and watch?"

Sunon gave the holocron a look of wistful consideration, one tinged with the slightest bit of anxiety - as if she were afraid to stay in the same room with it while it was active.

"It won't talk to me."

Gamin could think of nothing to say in response, and Sunon gave him mercifully little time to answer anyway. He himself had no desire to interact with the tiny figure hovering in the air before him, but found himself wishing he had some way to serve as a bridge between Sunon and the heritage she was so hopelessly cut off from.

So, he spoke.


	12. Unspoken Truths

Gamin's time with the holocron hadn't gone the way he thought it would. For one thing, he expected to have been spooked enough to boot it out an airlock within two minutes of activating the thing. Sunon had left, he had introduced himself to the miniature Sith simulcron, and it had made a similarly polite introduction.

To his surprise, he found the device's creator quite amiable. There were certain teachings Gamin balked at from time to time, but the Lord was reasonable enough in his arguments that Gamin never argued any one point for very long. That, and the fact that he wanted to speed things up and learn something besides Sith philosophy.

"...Which is why the mob is to be feared more than the benevolent tyrant," said the well-dressed hologram. "Democracy contains within itself the seeds for its own destruction."

Gamin refocused his wandering eyes on the figure and shook away the beginnings of sleep with an exaggerated nod. "That makes a lot of sense. I've never thought about it that way."

A barely-perceptible smile appeared on the grainy projection of the Sith's aged visage. "That brings us to lessons of a more practical nature. Philosophy should always be rooted in the world, and ours is a world of action."

Gamin leaned forward in rapt anticipation, but his excitement changed to horror as the holocron crumpled into a sparking mess of metal and fiberglass. Footsteps to his left drew his attention to the doorway leading into the training room, where a grim-faced Ibayo was fast approaching.

"Why would you do that?" he said in stunned anger.

Ibayo used the Force to bring the crushed holocron into her hand. The way she held it with only her fingertips told Gamin that she couldn't wait to drop it.

"Where did you get this?" she asked. "Did you steal it?"

He sputtered in disbelief and rose to his feet. "That was a gift! A very expensive one, I'm sure."

Ibayo tossed the crushed holocron back to him. The hum of tiny electronics had ceased, and already some warmth had left it. "Is it worth more than your soul?"

"No, but my life might be." He held up the now-useless device. "What am I supposed to do next time we run into someone who wants to kill me? Fall back on my Jedi training? I never got past the 'lifting rocks' stage."

"So now you seek a faster path." For an ex-Sith, she did a great impression of a Jedi. He had to give her that.

Gamin answered with no hesitation. "Yeah, I do. We're going to be on Myar II in what, less than three standard cycles? I'm sure something there's going to want to kill me." He threw his hands up in exasperation. "You refused to help, and now you want to play the wise Master?"

His outburst was filled with enough truth that Ibayo could do nothing but stand silently as she sought to reconcile her words and actions. It occurred to Gamin that he had an unfair advantage. He had spent years learning firsthand all the contradictions Force users, teachers, and Jedi were prone to falling prey to. That intellectual blindness was an easier trap to fall into than the abstraction of the Dark Side those same teachers loved to warn against any chance they got.

"Why won't you teach me?" he asked her. "Do I look like someone who's a few lessons away from going mad with power? The worst crime I've committed is some grand larceny. I've broken a few hearts, too, but that's only illegal on Zeltron."

"You have met my past apprentice." Ibayo gave him a look of forlorn memory that was powerfully emotional despite her lack of eyes. "That is what becomes of someone who pursues power out of what they deem 'necessity'."

Gamin arched his back and groaned up at the ceiling. "That monster? I'm sure he was an asshole way before you found him. Go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong." He looked her in the eyes and waited for a response, but received none.

"Look." He rolled the broken holocron around in his palm. "You just smashed Lord Andar into a hunk of scrap metal. If you won't teach me anything, I'll probably die out there in the jungle."

More silence.

"That's what you want, isn't it? I die, and you get to mope around the galaxy with another regret to pile on top of the others." He took a few swift steps towards her, and Ibayo wavered in place at the unexpected advance. Gamin lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or, you can end your long exile and train the most powerful Force user this galaxy has ever seen."

She cracked a smile. It wasn't pretty, and was mixed with too much pain and uncertainty to call a display of happiness, but it was genuine. "You are not powerful. Nowhere near."

Gamin stepped back and grinned. "Perfect. You'll be training someone with neither the ability or desire to affect galactic events. No pressure whatsoever."

The seconds of silence that followed ticked by at an excruciatingly slow pace. Gamin had laid into her with all of the earnestly humorous arguments he had, and now could only wait and watch as the veiled woman turned them over in her mind. This was, he thought, the only time he had ever asked someone to teach him. He had come to the Jedi Academy on the insistence of his parents, and had received the Masters' teachings simply because it was the path laid out for him. This, on the other hand, was all him.

"I will not teach you," she said softly. "But I will help you protect yourself. We will practice a few simple things." She held up a finger. "Only this once"

Gamin's jumped a few inches off the ground in excitement, and clapped his hands once while smiling broadly with a face that was rapidly becoming redder.

"I'm finally going to lift that goddamn rock."

* * *

If sterile laboratories were Ayahe's true home, then prison cells were the grim travel accommodations she was occasionally forced into. She had been held by Jedi, Sith, a Hutt, and even her own adoptive mother. Back then, heroes had tread the galaxy's star lanes. She had known one of them. Now they were all dead, lost, or too tired to fight anymore. The wars became smaller, the lines between right and wrong more blurred, and villain and hero became words reserved for Holovid characters.

Ayahe pulled her necklace out of her vest and fingered the blood-red crystal attached to it. The keepsake was the one thing her Mandalorian jailers let her keep besides the clothes on her back. Normally it would have been a comforting presence, but here it served as a painful reminder of the heroic rescue that would never come. If she was lucky, she would be released by Koras Jendri out of pity while he continued to pursue her sister. But if her deception had angered him enough, she would sit in a Mandalorian prison for interfering with an investigation while Sunon stood in front of a firing squad.

It was hopeless. She rocked back and forth on the bench in her cell while pressing the crystal to her chest. A shimmering forcefield stood between her and the single guard posted outside. That might not have been an insurmountable obstacle to escape, if it weren't for the thousands of crewmen and impenetrable security standing between her and any of the ship's docking bays. If Torin were here, she would already have started formulating a plan staked on the longest odds imaginable. Without him, 'impossible' turned from a challenge into a guarantee of failure.

How differently would things have gone if she had been just a little bit older and braver when they had known each other?

It wasn't worth thinking about now. Those were the sort of poisonous questions that had led her to hate someone who had done nothing wrong. An infant passed off to Ayahe by a worn-out mercenary who couldn't be bothered to care for her. A child that rebelled with all the justified fury of someone who had been abandoned by the two people who were supposed to care for her most. A teenager who, with every passing day, looked more and more like the woman Ayahe had hated and the man they both loved.

The guard outside her cell moved out of view. She couldn't hear a thing through the forcefield, but it became obvious who had ordered him away when her diminutive captor appeared next to the cell's control panel. He took a few moments to examine her, as if seeing her in a new light, then pressed a button to disable the barrier's sound dampening.

"Who are you working for?" said Koras. The calm nobility had left his voice. Despite being on the more favorable side of their shared barrier, he seemed more anxious than Ayahe herself.

"No one," she replied sternly. "I am trying to help my sister."

The corners of his lips drew down in anger. Despite his education and responsibilities, this was a child, with a child's temperament. She needed to choose her words carefully.

"You can help her by telling me where she is."

"If I knew, I would have gone to her myself."

His expression darkened further. Not just with anger, but with the sort of confused sense of betrayal that only the young and pure can wear. It wasn't the first time she had seen it.

"So you were using me."

"She is my sister," Ayahe said quietly. "I would do anything for her. I know that she could not murder someone."

"Anything?" he shot back sharply. "Even lie?"

She didn't respond.

"Why should I trust a word you have to say?"

It was a valid question, and one Ayahe didn't have an answer to. What she did have was another question: why was he here talking to her, unless some part of him wanted to believe her?

"Do not listen to my words, then. Listen to what the evidence says." Ayahe launched into a summary of events at the embassy, which Koras had already heard once from her and dozens of times from investigative sources. The impatient look on his face told her that he wasn't in the mood to consider her arguments, no matter how compelling she believed them to be.

"I have listened to you enough." Koras pressed a button on the wall intercom and called for the guard he had dismissed. "Your sister is an evil murderer, and she will hang. You will go on trial for conspiracy against the people of Mandalore and its rightful government."

Ayahe's head spun. The galaxy had pulled the rug out from under her, and she felt as if she were floating and falling at the same time. She took a few steps back to sit on the bench, but the sight of Koras' turned back had her charging the forcefield and pounding on it uselessly.

"You are cowards, all of you! You murder my mother, and now you want to execute my sister? Savages, pretending at civilization!"

The prince stopped and took a few steps back towards the cell. "Your mother?"

His interest was piqued, but Ayahe wasn't thinking in such coolly calculating terms anymore. She was furious, he was going to hear everything she had to say.

"For a sword!" She have a sarcastic sneer. "All for a stupid sword. You people fight over relics from hundreds of years ago because that was the last time Mandalore mattered."

Her outburst was as counterproductive as everything else she had said that day, but Koras' reddening face was beyond satisfying to someone as furious as her.

"I would offer my condolences if I weren't so sure that you simply speak more lies." A pike-wielding guard reappeared beside Koras as the latter prepared to leave. "Nor do I expect a rootless Twi'lek to understand the value of history."

Ayahe scoffed in disgust.

"A piece of that history will soon be helping us track down your sister."

"Another relic?" she countered.

Koras hovered his finger over the sound dampener to ensure he got the final word in. "A living relic."

* * *

The Nemesis had been Tralus' home for years. It had taken him from the edges of known space to the Inner Rim, and from the depths of hopeless obscurity to the rarefied heights from which he could glimpse his inevitable triumph. The flagship had grown alongside him, becoming a mobile battle station that could hold its own against the planetary defenses of any number of Republic fortress worlds. Perhaps within his lifetime, it would do just that.

"Commander Crale's shuttle has arrived, sir," came the AI's voice over the intercom of the empty bridge. Though the ship was home to him, the tantalizing imminence of his victory had made it feel more and more like a holding cell or cocoon waiting to be broken free of. He had taken to sequestering himself on the bridge between operations to enjoy the unrivaled view offered by the front viewport looming before his command platform.

"The automatic recall?" said Tralus. He had received no communications from Crale or his squad after their encounter with the Force-stunted Sith on Bandomeer, and had to assume the worst. A cyclic timer on the shuttle had sent it back to the rendezvous point after Crale failed to perform one of the regular fifteen-minute resets.

"Correct. Docking bay Besh has performed a sweep of the craft. Zero life forms, nothing to report."

Tralus closed his eyes, turned his attention inward, and directed a few silent words to his old friend. Not a priest's prayer, but a warrior's promise. Within moments he rose to his feet, his focus again turned outward and his resolve steeled by the difficulties that would have broken weaker men.

"Pala," he said to the innumerable ears of the ship's AI. "What is the current ship roster?"

"Current ship roster is two thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight living beings, as well as five hundred and ninety-seven mobile droids."

"Scan by distinct heat signatures. How many sapients do you register?"

Her answer came in a matter of seconds. "Two thousand, two hundred and thirty-eight sapients."

That should have been the end of it, but something in the back of Tralus' mind told him to press further.

"Given the rate of oxygen consumption since Commander Crale's shuttle arrived, how many sapients do you estimate to be present?"

It was a calculation made easier by the fact that all of them - save perhaps one or two - were human, with similar metabolic rates. Still, Pala took an uncharacteristically long time to answer. Perhaps she was embarrassed - it was the sort of sentient trait seen in AIs designed to be as flexible as her.

"Two thousand, two hundred, and thirty-nine sapients."

Crale pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully, then raised one hand and pressed his thumb and index finger together. He waited one second, then two. Then, he snapped his fingers. A wave of destructive energy spread outward from him, crushing computer equipment across the expansive bridge and crumpling stairs and handrails. A shimmering figure was thrown back across the room, flickering and flashing as if reality had a tenuous hold on it. Tralus' would-be attacker scrambled for the vibrosword that had been torn from his grip, but the Mandalorian was faster and far better positioned.

"I should commend you for breaching every layer of security this ship has." Tralus reached out with the Force and sent the weapon flying off into the distance, then grabbed the man by the leg and flung him towards the opposite wall. The black-clad figure crashed into the paneling hard enough to crumple steel, and the faceplate of his stealth mask shattered, revealing the cracked bone mask of a Kaleesh.

"But that was the easy part." Tralus' other hand shot down to his waist, and the inactive lightsaber that hung from his belt. He stopped his hand short of the hilt. Maliss Vizla hadn't been worthy of a warrior's death, and this purposeless Kaleesh was even less deserving of such an honor. When the Darksaber was drawn, it would be for another Mandalorian.

Tralus thrust both hands at Xalek and grabbed him by either arm, then pulled the Kaleesh towards him within the blink of an eye. He kept Xalek suspended there for a moment, confused by what he saw within the Kaleesh's slitted eyes. Not fear or even concern, but naked awe.

"You can use the force?" said Xalek, admiration evident in his voice. Tralus released his grip, dropping Xalek to his knees. The once-proud Kaleesh did not rise to his feet. Instead, he prostrated himself, pressing his face as close to the ground as his tusks would allow. "It has been so long since I have witnessed such power. So many years."

Tralus backed away from the Kaleesh, the former's disgust as evident as the latter's amazement. Both sought to claw their way back to a golden age that the galaxy had moved on from, but there was one important difference.

Tralus could do it.

Mandalore would rise again, but the Sith would continue their slow fracturing until all that was left of them were holocrons stored in the vaults of Hutt collectors. The Kaleesh would never get what he desired, because he could not see past his own petty desires. Tralus envisioned a future for Mandalore that stretched far beyond his own death.

"Teach me," Xalek pleaded. "Take me as your Apprentice, and I will do whatever you ask of me."

It took all of Tralus' formidable willpower to keep himself from striking down the Kaleesh then and there. But it would have been a mercy the brutal assassin was unworthy of, and Tralus still needed him. Mandalorian trackers were unparalleled in their ability to hunt a target down no matter how deep they had buried themselves, but Xalek possessed one key attribute that they did not - a Force connection to one of the two women Tralus needed dead.

"Stand up," Tralus said, disdain dripping from his words. Xalek pushed himself to his feet. "I hired you to do a job. That job isn't finished."

In the past, Xalek might have offered angry excuses that spat on the battle prowess of his Mandalorian minders, or the inaccuracy of Tralus' operational intelligence. This time, he said nothing.

"Kill the Forceless Sith. Kill the man she's with. Kill your old Master, and make a new beginning of things."

Xalek's hunched back straightened at those words, and his eyes opened wide with the clarity of one who sees a future brimming with fruitful possibilities.

"Do that, and I will show you more power than you could dream of."

* * *

Myar II was a jungle. To say it was a moon covered in jungle would understate just how thoroughly the corded Lyrata trees and their assorted underbrush had overtaken the moon. After ten minutes spent skimming the treetops in the Mantis, Sunon had yet to catch a glimpse of solid ground. She had begun to seriously toy with the idea of setting down on the thickly-vined canopy, which looked as solid as any landing pad.

"Are you alright?" Gamin said to Ibayo from the co-pilot's seat. The Miraluka stood behind him and Sunon, leaning between their seats with her sightless eye sockets directed out the front viewport to the jungle below. She had not moved a muscle since they had entered the moon's lower atmosphere. Not even to close the jaw that had dropped open when she first glimpsed the surface.

"There is so much life," Ibayo marveled. "It is... much to take in."

Myra's wet heat was giving the Mantis' sensors hell, but they worked well enough to echo Ibayo's sentiments. Sunon had scared up more than a few massive flocks of winged reptiles on their low-flying path, which had joined the ship in flight instead of fleeing its roaring engines.

Gamin stretched back in his seat and pressed two fingers to the underside of Ibayo's jaw in an attempt to close it, but she slapped his hand away and resumed her thunderstruck marveling. This time, with her lips pressed tightly together and her brow creased by the tiniest hint of outward annoyance.

"When are you going to put us down?" he asked Sunon, turning back around and spreading his legs wide.

"When I find somewhere to land," she shot back. "It doesn't matter where we start looking. The Taung's been spotted anywhere within a hundred miles of where we are now."

Which was part of why Sunon had brought them so low to scan visually for a spot to land, instead of letting the ship's sensors do the legwork. The longer they flew, the greater the chance that the Taung would detect their presence and pick up the trail. Finding a skilled hunter in a thousand square miles of jungle was a near impossibility, so they would bring the hunter to them - by becoming the hunted.

"Is that a hill?" Gamin pointed out the viewport to the left, where a jagged growth of green and turquoise rock slopes gently up from the jungle floor. Sunon brought the ship to bear on the formation, and was in the process of selecting the least precarious-looking patch of hillock when the mound shuddered and lurched. The reptiles that had been flying alongside the Mantis broke off and fled with a high-pitched screech, leaving them alone. The hill rolled down into the forest as if a landslide had taken down the whole formation, then surged back into the air a hundred feet closer to their ship.

Gamin pressed himself back into his chair and wrenched his armrests. "What the fuck is that?" he exclaimed.

His terrified disbelief was directed not at the shifting mound, but at the head it was attached to. A massive reptilian visage, far larger than the Mantis by any measure, shot towards their ship from its resting place below. It dragged a serpentine body that trailed far off into the distance, the true size of which was hinted at by the distant islands of monstrous snake that briefly peaked above the treetops.

"Move!" shouted Gamin. "Move, move!"

Sunon was too busy heeding his advice to complain about the way he delivered it. She cut out the ship's port thrusters and rerouted power to the starboard ones, tilting the ship sharply to the left and sending them into a gut-wrenching sidestrafe that had them skirting the open maw of the hungry serpent. For a fraction of a second, the only thing all three of them could see was the fleshy pink tunnel of the creature's cavernous throat. A harsh scrape on the top and bottom of the ship's hill told them exactly where the swoop bike-sized teeth were, and how close the three of them were to becoming this thing's next meal.

The ear-shattering scream of teeth on metal stopped, and the sun-drenched expanse of jungle came back into view. A heavy boom shook the air, and a glance at the ship's rear camera showed the serpent's head slipping back into the sea of green below.

Near-death experience notwithstanding, the creature's attack had an unexpected benefit. As it slithered off into the distance to seek slower and fatter prey, Sunon spotted a flattening of trees that had been created when the serpent came crashing back down. She circled the clearing until the distant shifting of snake-rattled trees disappeared into the horizon, then set the ship down and unstrapped her harness.

"How did you not see that coming?" Gamin said to Ibayo as they went single-file down the central stairwell. "It's a living thing, isn't it?"

"There is too much life," she replied. "You see by light, do you not?"

He shrugged and muttered in the affirmative.

"But with the sun in your eyes, you would not be able to."

They came to the cargo bay, and Sunon began double-checking the travel packs she had assembled for the trio. Her experience with jungle terrain consisted of a single day spent tracking a bounty, but it was more than the other two had. Hopefully, the three of them together could bring this mission to a better conclusion than that ill-fated job, which had ended with Sunon mired in the same quicksand that had swallowed up her target.

"Is this going to be an issue?" she said to Ibayo. The last thing they needed was a blind woman whose sixth sense was more of a liability than an asset.

"I will adjust." Her response was confident enough to mollify Sunon, who nodded and lowered the cargo bay ramp. Animal noises and wet heat rolled into the compartment like an ocean wave. Mere seconds of exposure seemed to have allowed Myar II to claim the ship's interior as its own.

"I hated this place before we landed. Now I hate it even more." Gamin plodded down the ramp with heavy footfalls that carried the weight of his displeasure. "No more giant snakes at least, right? We're all clear?" He cast a worried look at the tunnel of crushed trees the serpent had created, the only clear path available to them in the tangle of vegetation surrounding them.

Noticing that Ibayo wasn't walking alongside them, the other two both stopped and looked back up the ramp, where the once-Sith stood with the same awed expression she had worn in the cockpit. She shouldered her pack, then began working her way down the ramp with drunken steps that nearly sent her tumbling off both sides of the walkway. She blundered blindly past her comrades while gawking dumbly at the surrounding jungle, then tripped over the end of the ramp and face-planted into the flattened underbrush.

"Whoa, there!" Gamin dropped his pack and raced to help her up, with Sunon following shortly behind. "What's wrong?"

Ibayo swiveled her head about madly in an attempt to find the source of his voice. "Adjusting may take more time."

"Then you're useless," said Sunon.

Gamin shot her a tired glare as the pair steadied Ibayo on her feet. "You couldn't think of a better way to say that?"

Sunon slipped two fingers into a pocket in her forest jacket and pulled out two tiny discs, then slipped them under the neckline of her jumpsuit. Black facial markings zig-zagged up her red cheeks, giving her the unmistakable appearance of a hornless Zabrak.

"It's a simple assessment," she remarked casually. "We can't use her, so she's useless."

"Then she'll watch the ship for us. That's useful."

Sunon held up her wrist computer. "I have a beck-and-call, and blind women aren't allowed to fly my ship in the first place."

"Enough." Ibayo gently slipped her arm free of Gamin's hand and dragged her pack back up the ramp of the ship. "I can use the onboard voice commands and listen for alerts. If the sensors pick up anything, I will call you."

The cargo bay sealed behind her, and the remaining two began their aimless trek along the forest tunnel the serpent had created for them. Eventually even that well-defined route terminated at an underground pit that shot down into the ground at a steep angle. They didn't dare follow it, instead opting to cut through a jungle that became so dense the sun was a distant memory. The ground was thick with moss that felt like carpet underneath their feet, and every maneuverable gap between spiralling tree trunks was netted by thick vines that Sunon tore away at with a vibrating saw-tooth blade.

"What's the plan here?" he asked her as he slipped between two low-hanging ropes of woody vine. "Just walk and pray?"

"We'll do a circuit around the mountain to our east. Most of the attacks happened to the west of it, so the Taung is probably making camp on the western slope."

Gamin smiled and made an uneasy sound in his throat. "So, 'yes'."

Sunon stopped in the midst of a tangle of vines and glanced back at him. "Look at how you're dressed."

He took in his clothes, the same sort he had worn for years - though these were less than two months old. A white shirt with buttons running a quarter of the way down - unbuttoned, of course. Blue pants with gold stitching, a brown jacket that he obsessively picked leaves off of, and leather boots meant for those who wanted to convey a love of the outdoors without actually enduring it.

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

She snorted in amusement and continued hacking away at the overgrowth. "Nothing. They're perfect. Now look at what I'm wearing."

Sunon felt his eyes on her back, taking everything in from head to toe. A patterned green jacket with purple spotting meant to mimic the ubiquitous Gangolu flower vine that grew all over Myar II. A mesh hood draped down her back, ready to be zipped up and shield her face and neck from hungry insects. Black galoshes that ran halfway up her calves, as ugly as they were functional.

"Should I have changed?" he asked uneasily.

"No, you look just like you should. A bored rich kid who got tired of the good life and thought off-world hunting would be a fun challenge." She slapped her chest with one hand. "With an experienced guide doing all the real work, of course."

"Of course."

A short time later, they came to a deep ravine down which trickled a small stream of water. The expanse of jungle canopy made the moon's surface appear even and easy to traverse, but a short time spent on the ground told a different story.

"Is that how you see me?" Gamin said, breaking a long silence.

Sunon shrugged. "You won the genetic lottery and got handed powers most people can only dream about. Then you left the Jedi Order and fucked around for a few years because you didn't want to see mommy and daddy."

Gamin halted mid stride and waited for Sunon to do the same. "Can you say anything without being a tremendous bitch? Is that genetic?"

She turned to face him. "Am I wrong?"

He dropped his pack and rolled back shoulders which had been bowed by hours of hiking. "I told you the short version of my story. That doesn't mean you know me."

Sunon met his gaze with disinterest, then continued on without a word. She hadn't meant for her sarcastic assessment to come out quite so viciously. In between stumbling over bushes and rocks she tried to think of how to take back something she had meant every word of. It was Gamin who spoke first.

"The Force. Is that what this is about? I can feel it, you can't, and that bugs the shit out of you."

There wasn't a response in the world that she could have made sound believable, except to admit that he was right. So she said nothing, and continued pushing through the jungle.

"It's not even about me 'wasting' my potential, is it? You're just pissed that I have what you want."

Sunon tore away at a section of vine between two bowed trees and threw it back at him. "Yeah, you're right. I want what I should have been born with. I want a home I can go back to and a family that'll welcome me back with open arms."

Again she felt Gamin's fierce gaze boring into her skull. That wasn't the Force in action, though. Just a useless sixth sense that let her know when her caustic remarks had truly gone too far.  
"You already have that!" Gamin shouted in exasperation. "You could call your sister right now if you weren't such a goddamn coward!"

A dozen responses flashed through Sunon's mind. She wanted to tell Gamin how much simpler his own situation was, how idiotic he was for exiling himself for a failure that would have been forgiven, and how his cheap shame was nothing compared to the mountain of grief and regret that she struggled to breathe under. But his foolishness differed from hers only in degree - and that made her furious enough to forego words and seek refuge in violence.

It was a well-telegraphed punch, meant to scare more than hurt. What Sunon didn't count on was how well Gamin had integrated Ibayo's brief teachings, and how quickly he could react when fear didn't paralyze him. He thrust an open palm towards her, and the air in front of his hand exploded, throwing her up and away.

She rolled into a bend in the ravine, then spun about in the air for a few harrowing seconds before smashing down on soft ground. The streambed beneath her was covered in wet moss, creating a spongy pad that broke her fall better than even her armor's shock absorbers could have.

"Are you alright?" Gamin peeked out over the top of the ravine, and his concern turned to amusement when he saw Sunon rise to her feet.

"I'm fine." She wiped the muck off her hands and took a quick inventory of her person, then looked up to the grinning man above her. "Get me out of here."

His smile disappeared, but the look of worry he adopted in its place was anything but genuine. "Oh, man. I don't know if I can do that. I've spent my whole life wasting my talents. How would I even know what to do?"

Sunon picked up a rock and threw it at him, forcing him to seek cover behind the lip of the cliff. "If you help me up now, I'll call us even. If I have to get myself out, I'm not going to be happy."

The silence that followed had her believing that Gamin was seriously weighing her offer. Distant thunder cracked the sky, and a flash of lightning breached the canopy. The distant sound of rain became clearer and closer.

"I'm thinking we should mix up our routes to cover more ground. I'll go high, you go low. Let me know if you spot anything down there."

She was about to bellow a promise of future injuries when water splashed against her leg. The stream at her feet which had once not even covered her toes now flowed around the ankles of her boots and lapped at her exposed shins.

"Gamin!" she shouted anxiously.

"Let's try that one more time, more politely." A dull roar drowned out his words. This wasn't the split-second clap of thunder, nor the far-off pitter patter of rain on leaves. This was continuous, land-bound, and growing closer.

"It's flooding!" She raced over to the ravine wall and threw her arms up in desperation. "Get me out, now!"

Gamin appeared at the edge of the cliff, skating to a quick stop and kicking a few rocks off in the process. Warm water bathed Sunon's thighs and filled her boots until they were lead weights strapped to her feet. He grabbed her under both armpits with the Force and tried to haul her up, but in his panic pulled her towards him in a direct line, causing her to slide against the cliff face and batter the top of her head on the first rocky outcropping.

He lost his grip on her, and she fell back into a ravine that had, within the span of a minute, turned into a raging river fierce enough to sweep her away like a leaf. Up became down and left became right, reversing themselves so rapidly that direction became a meaningless concept. The thick moss that kept Sunon's skull-cracking impacts from turning fatal also made every conceivable handhold too slippery to grasp onto, and she quickly reached a speed that would see her body broken regardless of what cushioned her blows.

Then, without warning, she was back in open air. A great expanse of jungle loomed below, and she fell along with the flow of water down a sheer drop. A growing pool of water lay far below, and around it a camp, with tents, supplies, and even a one-man airborne recon vehicle. She had only a few seconds to take in the sight before she was plunged underwater, smashing her shoulder against the bottom of the shallow pool.

Frantic voices came low and muffled from outside the pool. Sunon spun around underwater to see a man staring at her from a rocky outcropping no more than a few feet away. She was obscured by the silt her impact had kicked up, but she could see him clear as day. Fair-skinned, short-shaven blond hair, and a suit of blue armor that looked as battered and bruised as she must have.

A Mandalorian.

The man was joined by two others. He squinted into the murky water, said something inaudible, then drew his sidearm and fired it aimlessly on either side of her. She went for her own weapon, only to find that it had been lost in the chaos of the last half-minute. The Mandalorian shifted his aim again, putting his barrel level with her chest. Before he could fire, she planted her feet on the pool bed and shot up, breaching the surface in one forceful surge.

Her would-be killer stepped back with one foot, but she grabbed hold of the other and pulled as hard as she could. Both feet came forward, and he cracked his skull open on the rocks before sliding into the pool atop Sunon. She wrapped an arm around his neck and restrained his legs with hers, then put his convulsing body between her and the other two men.

A flurry of blaster shots followed, putting an end to their friend's life. Sunon wrested the blaster from the dead Mandalorian's frozen grip and returned fire. All four shots missed, but succeeded in forcing her attackers away from the ledge. She threw off her armored shield and swam back to the surface to take in a lungful of air, but was careful not to put herself within view of the men. Water continued to cascade down from the cliff behind her, shrouding the pool and center of the camp in a hot mist as thick as smoke and just as opaque.

The two men who had fired at her edged closer. She couldn't see them, but she could hear their rubberized soles scraping across wet gravel. Past the spray of water and cry of birds she heard more scraping and shouting as the rest of the small encampment surrounded the pool. One man moved close enough for her to see, and was scanning the pool for any sign of the target they had been alerted to.

"Up here!" came a distant shout. The Mandalorians looked upward in unison, then scattered. Seconds later, a boulder as tall and wide as any of them broke open where one of the men had been standing, exploding in a shower of rock. The next boulder cratered a tent, and a third totaled the small vehicle the Mandalorians had brought with them. The soldiers took up cover wherever they could find it an opened fire on the top of the cliff, but it was clear that none had any idea who they were being attacked by or where he was hiding.

Sunon knew the 'who', and didn't care about the 'where' so long as Gamin kept their enemies distracted. She went for the one across the pool first. He was the furthest away, but the only one she had a clear line of sight to. He had pressed himself up against the side of a gnarled tree whose trunk looked pregnant with vibrant blue fruit that split the bark as it grew outward. Sunon fired at him through the haze of waterfall spray between them, and one of the ripe fruit exploded. He turned, fired in Sunon's direction, and came dangerously close to ending the exchange right there. Her next shot caught the underside of his extended blaster arm, pierced his chest, and wheeled him into the tree beside him. He didn't get back up.

The five remaining Mandalorians wised up quickly. They ran around both sides of the pool while firing wild suppressive shots in Sunon's direction, then took refuge against the sheer cliff face well out of view of where she hunkered down under a ledge in the pool. With Gamin unable to see exactly where they had hidden, he resorted to tumbling rocks down at random. One Mandalorian was buried when his protective overhang was smashed to pieces, and a second was crushed outright by a lucky throw of a astromech droid-sized rock.

Sunon hauled herself up from the pool and took advantage of the chaos by dashing clear across what would have otherwise been a dangerously exposed killing field. She made it to a small supply cache that let her take cover in any conceivable direction with only a few feet of movement from one crate to the next. With Gamin pinning down their enemies and Sunon outflanking them, the next two soldiers soon fell with patient and well-aimed blaster shots.

The fifth and final Mandalorian didn't wait around to meet a similar fate. He fired off a few rounds at the stacked supplies Sunon was half-hidden behind, then took off running towards the concealing safety of the jungle. After a few close calls with falling debris, he was clear. Sunon swore up a storm and gave chase.

When the squad they had just decimated failed to check in, it was a given that reinforcements would be sent from whatever concentration of forces these soldiers were supposed to report back to. What she couldn't allow to happen was for him to tell them just who exactly had attacked them. Myar II was an obscure locale, and she could think of only one reason Mandalorians would be scouting out this area - because they were looking for the same alien.

For a few harrowing moments, she feared she had lost her target. Thicks roots tripped her up, and rope-sized vines caught her by the arms and legs as she swept left and right with her stolen blaster. The glint of sun-lit metal up ahead caused her to reflexively duck and narrowly avoid the ambush shot the Mandalorian had lined up. He turned and continued fleeing, but his armor made him slower and less maneuverable than Sunon, who vaulted over and danced around the same tangle of plant life that snared him as well as any net.

The moment she had a clear shot, she took it. The bolt struck his right side, and he clutched at it as he rolled for the safety of a broad cluster of intertwined tree trunks. Sunon raced forward and dashed around the grouping, expecting to find the soldier either crippled or fleeing, but she had blundered straight into the open end of a blaster barrel. She slapped it aside, and pointed her own weapon at the man's dirt-covered face. He shoved up from the ground and tackled her, knocking the gun from her hand and driving her backwards while she slammed her joined fists into his armored back. Her feet struck a root, and they both fell down a steep slope that carried them away long after her opponent's furious momentum exhausted itself.

Their violent dance continued mid-roll, with Sunon searching desperately for her sheathed vibroknife while her opponent swung wildly at her with his wristblade. They hit flat ground and rolled away from each other, with the weighty Mandalorian stopping well before she did. Sunon recovered first, grabbing her knife from her waist before standing up and spinning it about in her palm so that the blade pointed downward.

Then, she froze.

The Mandalorian stood no more than twenty feet away from her, clutching his side with his right hand while his blade arm remained crossed protectively over his wounded midsection. Like Sunon, his eyes wavered between the person he had been engaged in a life-and-death struggle with, and the far more terrifying sight beside him.

A massive feline creature lay on a rocky ledge a few feet above the ground, no more than a stone's throw away from either of the two combatants. It rested its quill-maned head on its paws, eyed closed, and the chromatic scales covering its spiny back rippled with each slow breath. Every joint and vulnerable area was covered with iridescent plates that grew from its hide, making the beast appear like someone had melded a Nexu with a battle tank while maintaining the size of the latter.

Sunon had lost her only firearm in the preceding melee. Judging by how he frantically searched his holsters, so had her opponent. He spun around to flee, and Sunon gave chase. What followed was the quietest and most delicate fight of her life. The Mandalorian, sensing her approach, stopped and deflected her knife thrust off to one side. The two grappled and stabbed, rolled and recovered, with the crunch of leaves and crack of twigs replacing the battle cries that would normally accompany such a struggle.

She tried to catch her opponent in between a gap in his segmented breastplate, but missed narrowly and ended up blunting her blade across his muddied blue armor. He wound one arm around hers and drew her in close to break the limb at the elbow, which she avoided by yanking her knife arm forward until it was free of his grip. The hilt of her blade caught on his gauntlet and fell to the ground. He pressed his brief victory with no hesitation, planting a boot on the fallen blade before plunging his own upward at Sunon's abdomen. She caught him by the wrists and staggered backwards to avoid being gutted.

This time, she did not meet with anything as harmless as a hundred-foot fall. Her lower back struck rough rock, and a burst of hot air massaged her neck and made every hair on her body stand on end. The abject fear in her opponent's eyes told her exactly what lay behind her. She took advantage of his hesitation, swinging his joined hands off to one side in an attempt to create an opening. He jettisoned his paralyzing fear like only a true warrior could, gritting his teeth and continuing Sunon's forced swing until his knife was pointed down at Sunon's collarbone. He was wounded, but stronger than her with time and gravity on his side. She needed to end this.

A single step to the right took her out of the blade's path. She rolled her hands atop her enemy's, then forcibly delivered the downward strike he had been leaning all of his weight into. The knife plunged into the top of the ledge beside them, between two of the slumbering predator's paws. The armored lion growled, its claws rolled across stone like a rattle of bones, and its breathing quickened - but it did not waken. Sunon and the Mandalorian exchanged a wordless look of genuine relief, in what was the closest moment of kinship she had felt with someone she was doing her damndest to kill.

A blaster bolt shattered the silence. It didn't come from her, or the Mandalorian, or anyone else in the vicinity. It came from on high, piercing the treetops and painting the clearing bright green for a tiny fraction of a second. The bolt skirted the feline's back, then sailed further off into the forest.

The beast roared with a ferocity not expected of something that had been sleeping so soundly. The needles embedded in its mane shot up straight, the plates on its back lowered across each other, and the creature brought a single claw down on the Mandalorian's extended arms. Each claw was like a butcher's knife unto itself, severing one arm clean through and mangling the other so badly that he might as well have lost it, too.

He stared at his bloody, armored stump in shock, and was opening his mouth in a wordless scream when the feline's jaws clamped down on either side of his neck, taking his head into its mouth in one bite. Vertebrae popped, blood poured down his armor until there wasn't a single bit of blue paint left visible, and Sunon struggled to pry herself free of the man's death grip. The cat flung the body into a nearby tree, separating the two of them by force.

Sunon had seen enough.

It was one thing to fight trained killers - people who had dealt death for so long that it was as much a part of their life as their name or face. Killing was what they did - what Sunon did - and they did it well. The force of nature she faced now didn't just practice death. It was death. Millions of years of evolution had created a creature who ate, drank, and breathed violence. How could she face something like this?

She was a scared girl again, running away from something she thought she had made her own. But she wasn't death. This perfect creature tearing at her through the jungle was everything she had pretended to be. It had come for Maliss, and now it was coming for her. Sunon's heart beat too fast. Her breaths ran too shallow. Her skin felt hot and cold, her limbs like stone and jelly all at once. She wanted to stop and give up, and to keep running until her body said 'no more'.

Only once before had she ever felt so alone, and so afraid.

The forest opened up, and Sunon found herself skirting the edge of an upward slope. A few hundred feet past that, the waterfall she had fallen with ran down the same cliff Gamin had stood atop of. She shot towards the hill and scrambled over roots and mounds of crumpled leaves while her pursuer roared and charged after her. Smaller size was the one advantage she had in the claustrophobic confines of Myar II's jungle, but even that would vanish the moment she entered the open space of the Mandalorian encampment.

It was a risk she needed to take. She would tire long before the predator bearing down on her, and to collapse from exhaustion would mean certain death. Her only hope was to find a weapon, stop running, and make her stand.

A shout rang out ahead, bolstered by the backdrop of the cliff face. "Sunon!"

The wrecked remains of the camp came into view. So did Gamin, who was walking through the debris in a vain search for her. She shouted his name, and he turned to her with a growing grin. That smile vanished the moment he saw the gleaming beast of plated fur and bladed teeth gnashing at her heels.

To his credit, he didn't freeze or run. Nor did he lash out in a wild display of Force power that would have hurt Sunon far worse than her more durable attacker. He reached out for a piece of wrecked air speeder, then hurled it at Sunon. She ducked and slid on wet turf, but the metal cylinder was already sailing well clear of her head. As it passed over, she dimly recognized the star-shaped valve plugs of a fuel cell marking the side nearest her.

With a sharp 'clang', the tremendous beast to her rear intercepted the projectile and bit down with both jaws. Catalytic fluid spilled from its maw, and more was flung about as the lion whipped its head back and forth in an attempt to dislodge the canister from its teeth. Sunon raced towards the nearest Mandalorian corpse and searched frantically for a blaster, a grenade, a slug thrower, anything.

Rolling the armored body over revealed a rifle pressed into the dirt, which she pried out of the ground and leveled at the thrashing beast before her. With her back supported by the dead Mandalorian, she inhaled, exhaled until her lungs were empty and her hands were steady, then fired.

The shot hit true. Flames sparked to life on the lion's chemical-coated teeth, then raced up into the canister they flowed from. The container erupted in a brilliant flash of blue light that enveloped the creature's head before covering Sunon's entire field of vision.

The light faded. Blood and viscera rained down from the treetops in gory chunks, and the lion's headless body collapsed into the grass. A blue fire continued to burn on its neck stump while the rest of the creature spasmed with grotesque death rattles, making the thing appear like a spirit of the underworld that had just dug itself out of Myar II's root-woven ground.

What had once seemed like a primal force of nature now looked ridiculous, without a hint of the threat it once carried. The armor plates on its back were askew from the force of the explosion, and its clawed limbs were twisted at unnatural angles. Sunon waited until its death throes ceased, then lowered her rifle between her spread legs and stared up at the orange-tinted sky above the clearing.

"Is it dead?" Gamin jogged over and slid to a stop beside the Mandalorian corpse she was leaned against. "I hate this place even more than when we landed. I didn't think it was possible, but there it is."

She looked up at him in open-mouthed disbelief. Seeing him standing there beside her, a quizzical expression directed at her, seemed so odd. For some reason she couldn't quite pin down, she hadn't expected to see him again. Either one of them would die, or he would simply tire of her and wander off after one argument too many.

"You were up on the cliff." Her voice shook as much as her hands. The terror she had felt during her flight had turned into shock, and her body was suffering the after-effects of being hit with every ounce of adrenaline she had. She could hardly hold onto the rifle anymore, and was forced to set it on the ground before it slipped from her grip.

"Who did you think was throwing those rocks?" Gamin replied. He wasn't shellshocked like her, but he was so out of breath that he barely managed to get the words out in one go.

"Then you came down here." She looked up at the top of the waterfall, and the glow of the sun now hidden by the edge of the cliff. Her eyes traveled with the flow of water, stopping at Gamin. He gave her a confused look, one that said he wasn't sure if he was talking to someone who was right in the head.

Gamin waved idly off at the dense jungle surrounding them. "You ran off into the jungle. What was I supposed to do?"

Sunon looked off at the treeline, where the greenery was starting to blur into the sky and the colors ran together. She tried to steady her vision, but then realized the problem wasn't her fear-addled mind. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she realized why inescapable death had, within the span of a few moments, turned into just another enemy to overcome.

It had been years since someone had aided her without being persuaded to by credits or the business end of a blaster. Longer still since she'd had something resembling friends, or family. People who wouldn't just help her out of the hole she'd dug herself into, but would jump in with her until they both got out. People who would pull her out of the fire no matter how much she deserved to get burned.

Gamin's confusion turned to worry at the sight of her gawking, tear-stained face. "Did it get you?" he exclaimed, kneeling beside her and picking at her muddied jacket to search for signs of punctures or blaster burns. She burst out laughing at the feel of his hesitant hands running over her.

Far off to the east, in the direction of the mountain, another being's inhuman cry echoed her own. What Sunon at first took for the roaring bark of an animal slowly changed into the raucous laughter of a madman.


End file.
